


Crystal Graces

by lucyharrow1



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra & Cullen are kinda BFFs, Developing Friendships, Dialogue Heavy, Don't Read This, Don't hug cold metal, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Haven (Dragon Age), I don't know the difference between slow build and slow burn, In an accountability partner way, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Or an Attempt at Humor, Seriously if you don't like dialogue, Slow Build, Tags Updated with New Chapters, Tea is Shit Without Honey, Unrealistic Expectations of Ladies, or how to tag, overprotective Cullen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyharrow1/pseuds/lucyharrow1
Summary: Headcanon: Cullen respects the chain of command; he would never act on any romantic feelings he develops for his superior officer, the Inquisitor.ERGO: My mage Trevelyan and the blushing, badass Commander needed to develop a strong friendship before Haven falls. This is a loosely-chaptered fic exploring how they build trust, develop inside jokes, and ultimately rely on each other more than they realize.Banter heavy. Unabashed fluff. A slow burn, an attempt at realistic befriending.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 117
Kudos: 171





	1. A Lady Does and Does Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is an unfortunate necessity: I have to set up OOC Lysette and some character plot points that will drive future Cullen/Evelyn interactions. Future installments will be heavily Cullen & Evelyn focused. Please bear with me here!

“And you’ve already scouted out locations for these watchtowers?” Cullen spoke up.

Evelyn nodded primly, noticing that his hand was on the pommel of his sword. Again.

At first, Evelyn had thought it was because she was a mage and he was obviously a Templar – he might not have the insignia on his breastplate or the frankly impractical skirting of the Chantry’s favourite watchdogs, but the man _oozed_ Templar.

But his hand was on his pommel when he marched by his sparring recruits. When he entered the Chantry to pray. When he spoke to Leliana, who could probably shiv him faster than he could draw it.

Evelyn had concluded that he was just paranoid. Which, given the _active war_ tearing the Hinterlands to _bloody shreds_ , might be fair. Maker knows she was ready to cast a barrier at the drop of a pin.

Cullen cleared his throat nervously. “And, we’re, uhm, quite certain they’re the optimal placements? Have we considered the wind paths? Defensibility? Not to insinuate –“

“Insinuate what, Commander?” Evelyn interrupted in her best _Lady Trevelyan_ voice. “That this mere Circle mage, this pampered, perfumed noble lady wouldn’t know how to intelligently place a watchtower?” She arched an eyebrow, aiming for _imperiously._

Cullen’s eyes darted back to the makeshift war table before he glanced at Josephine and Leliana for support. He met only unhelpful smirks.

 _A Lady does not tease,_ Evelyn chided herself. Maker knows the man was on edge enough.

Chuckling to break the tension, she added, “Of course I don’t! My best guess was to ‘put them up high somewhere?’ Which is why I delegated the decision to Cassandra and Lysette. And then dragged them over to Corporal Vale when they were done for a second opinion. And then implored Master Dennet to approve the locations, as well, once we returned to confirm the wolves were taken care of.”

“How thoughtfully thorough,” Josephine applauded. The dear Lady Montiliyet was Evelyn’s favourite person in all of Haven. Sophisticated, kind, everything good about Ostwick’s nobility but steely enough to thrive in a frozen wasteland…

“Wolves?” Cullen’s stern gaze was back on her.

Evelyn lifted one shoulder delicately, ignoring the fact that _a Lady does not shrug._

“They were possessed and causing the local farmers some troubles.”

“ _Possessed_ wolves?” Oh dear. Wrong thing to say to the Templar, apparently.

Evelyn smiled politely at his concern. “It’s all in the Lady Seeker’s report, Commander. Given our unexpectedly speedy return, I imagine she will deliver it post-haste.” After all, _a Lady is always polite._

“Of course.” _Aha!_ Spotted. His hand left the pommel for a moment to rub the back of his neck. It swiftly returned.

When the meeting finally concluded, the sun’s rays had just begun to warm sleepy little Haven. In order to have the watchtowers erected as quickly as possible, Evelyn had requested a meeting “first thing” the morning following their return.

At the time, she didn’t realize “first thing” meant _before_ Cullen’s drills with the new recruits. _At dawn_. The Maker was cruel.

Three tired advisors plus one recently-declared Herald were exiting the impromptu ‘War Room’ when Lysette arrived, disgustingly cheerful for the early hour.

“Evie!” she shouted, pulling Evelyn into a quick side-hug. In _full armour,_ of course.

“Knight-Recruit,” Cullen nodded. Lysette saluted. Leliana quirked an eyebrow at her exuberance, but it was Josephine who spoke first: “Lady Lysette, what a pleasure. I was aware you and the Herald were acquainted in Ostwick, but not so… familiarly. How delightful!”

Evelyn chuckled. “Lysette and I weren’t paying attention when they announced that Templars and Mages were at war, apparently. In our defense, our Knight-Commander made dreadfully boring announcements.”

Lysette bowed respectfully to the ladies. “I had the dubious pleasure of overseeing the bulk of Evelyn’s training at Ostwick,” she explained. “Nowadays, however, it seems my duties are limited to being her personal calendar.”

“Calendar?” Evelyn quirked her eyebrow.

Lysette’s responding grin was mischievous.

“Have you lost track of the days, Evie?”

Evelyn quickly realized what she meant and began to back away. “No. Not here, Lysette, we’re in the damn Chantry, for Andraste’s sake, not here. No.”

She felt the Holy Smite coming. She always could. Even knowing that Lysette would pull the punch, she barely had a moment to glare at her friend before the world went black and the floor rose up to gently meet her face.

***

Cullen hadn’t seen a Holy Smite since the darker days of Kirkwall. Mentally, it caught him off-guard, but his instincts were well-trained. He unsheathed his blade and faced the Templar before him while Josephine attended to the puddle of sleeping mage beside them.

“Knight-Recruit”, he barked. “What is the meaning of this?”

Lysette eyed his sword warily but didn’t draw her own. “Fully consensual, Commander. Evie signed up for this.”

Cullen sputtered. “You just _Smote_ her! This is a blatant misuse of Templar training -“

“-not a full Smite, mind you. Just enough to put her out for about, I would reckon, fifteen minutes.”

Cullen lowered his weapon slowly, fuming. “Explain yourself.”

“Yes, Ser. Of course, Ser. Do they have ‘birthday beatings’ in Fereldan, Ser? They’re a Marcher tradition. On your birthday, your friends give you ‘beatings’, or punches, equal to your age – in Evelyn’s case, today she’d get twenty-six. Evie and I started participating in this on, oh, what would it have been? My seventeenth birthday? We adapted it to suit our particular, erm, _skillsets_ , somewhere around her sixteenth.”

Cullen didn’t know how to react. He glanced at Leliana, whose eyes were trained on their surroundings, making sure no one saw the Blessed Herald of Andraste crumpled on the Chantry floor.

“You say she’ll be alright in fifteen minutes, but my experience says that a Holy Smite takes at least a full day to fully recover from. There’s no way the Herald-“

Lysette grinned again as she interrupted him. “Not when you’re Ever-Smitten-Evie, as we called her back in Ostwick, Ser. One of our little Enchanter’s first research projects – she came up with it very young. Essentially, a Templar can train to control the strength of their casts, much as a mage might limit the scope of a fireball or –“

Knight-Recruit Lysette didn’t get to finish her sentence. The Herald groaned, rolled over, and planted her marked left hand on Lysette’s polished iron boot. Immediately, lavender bolts of lightning spiked across the Templar’s body and pulled her to the floor in a loud crash.

Cullen’s sword was back out of its sheath in a heartbeat. Without lyrium, he couldn’t call a Dispel quickly enough to disrupt the onslaught; but something was different. Lysette was laughing. Hearty, belly laughs, twitching on the ground as lightning arched across her abdomen.

“Ev – Ev, have mercy – haha! Maker’s breath, how did you –“ she gasped between squealing giggles. “Ev, please – you’ve gotta stop – ha! Evvvvvv – please! I’m going to piss myself on the Chantry floor!”

“Would serve you right,” Evelyn mumbled. “If I’d eaten breakfast, I’d be losing it right now. On the _Chantry floor._ In front of _important people,_ Lysette!”

The lightning slowly dissipated as the Herald clambered to her knees. She cast a thankful smile at Josephine – who was doing a remarkable job seeming calm and not-particularly-petrified. Evelyn turned her attention to Cullen as Lysette continued to writhe on the ground in giggles.

“Tickling spell, Commander. Unorthodox, I know. Not officially sanctioned by the Chantry, but not officially forbidden, not that that matters these days. Just a little something we developed a few years ago.”

Cullen wanted nothing more than to berate her for such casual, callous use of magic. But he bit his tongue, remembering long conversations with the mirror while crossing the Waking Sea. He would not be the man that jumped in fear of magic. He would not be the man that judged each mage the same.

Slowly, he extended a hand to the Herald. Then to the Knight-Recruit. Kept composure. Showed no fear. Looked both the mage and templar in the eye and ordered, “Explain yourselves.”

The Herald, still grimacing from her Smite, began with a clear and steady voice. “In the Free Marches, there is a certain tradition…”

“Already covered that while you were Fadeless, little Enchanter. Do keep up.”

“I don’t see how–“Cullen began, but Lysette pulled Evelyn into another side hug and spoke first.

“We share a birthday, Commander.”

This time, the only thing that stalled Cullen’s disgruntled tirade was the Herald’s face. Usually so professional, so perfunctory, she looked _relaxed._ She had a toothy grin and eyes that crinkled.

He sighed and ran a hand across his face; the Herald might be the death of his patience. And he needed that patience for the recruits that morning.

***

After breakfast, walking out of the Chantry arm-in-arm with Josephine and Lysette, Evelyn asked the Ambassador if the Commander would ever forgive them for that display.

“He’s a reasonable man. Intelligent, recognizes true risk from mere superstition. He is not quite so easily ruffled, Herald.”

“Have you seen that mantle, Ambassador?” the templar giggled. “The Commander is _only_ ruffles. Though I suppose you’re not one that can judge…”

“Lysette, please,” Evelyn demurred. After all, _a Lady appreciates diverse fashions._

“Well, I hope you’re right, Josie,” Lysette added, “because the tickling spell is the least of a Templar’s worries when it comes to Evie’s magical experimentation.”

“Hush, Lys.” Evelyn chuckled. “It’s just temporary, anyway; while I’m recruiting agents in the Hinterlands for the Inquisition, we’ll have some interaction. I’m sure soon enough I’ll fade into his periphery – as much as any mage can – and the poor Commander won’t have anything to be ruffled by.”

“Oh! Oh! You should show him the massaging spell!” Lysette exclaimed. “Maferath’s bones, that man’s back is carved from stone. I’m sure he’d… appreciate it.” Evelyn shook her head; _a Lady does not wink salaciously or waggle her eyebrows._

“Oh, most certainly,” Josephine cut in. “You could consider it a service to the Inquisition, my Lady.” Apparently, Antivan ladies _do_ wink salaciously.

“Incorrigible gossips, the both of you.”


	2. The Heavy Weight of a Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing around with different POVs & tenses for this one-shot series. This one is from Evelyn’s. I will cater to the preferences of anyone willing to comment what those preferences are! :) Next one will be Cullen’s POV, most likely. 
> 
> In this chapter, our beloved couple actually have a conversation … or try to.

Harritt reminds me of the great-uncle that taught me to play chess as a little girl; same gruff beard and voice, same warm-toffee-pudding expression when I finally got the hang of how a chevalier moves – or, in Harritt’s case, when I successfully attached a blade to the end of my staff.

He makes Haven seem a little warmer. Makes it a little easier to ignore the eerie green sky.

I pass the man from Ansburg, the one with many, many incorrect opinions on horse breeding. Typical Ansburg: folk in that backwater could look at a mule and proclaim it a stallion. But as always, I bite my tongue. _A Lady does not eavesdrop,_ after all, except that I absolutely did and will continue to.

_Hmm_. It seems the man from Ansburg has found love in this desolate corner of the world, with a common Fereldan girl no less, and the very possibility of this makes Haven a little warmer as well. 

The afternoon is bright and unusually quiet. I soon notice why: the vast expanse where Inquisition troops suffer through endless drills is almost deserted. Only a handful of simply-clad men are sparring, while others loiter around the tents.

Someone calls, “Greetings, Herald!” as I turn toward Haven’s gates. Out of all the monikers I’ve borne, ‘Herald of Andraste’ is not the silliest nor the most pretentious. But it is certainly the most ominous.

After all, _he who lives by the swor…fireball, shall die by the fireball,_ as my father would say, and they did burn Andraste…

“Lady Trevelyan?” I recognize the voice this time and turn serenely to greet the Commander.

“Commander Rutherford,” I forgo the curtsy for a shallow bow of the head, as befitting his position. “I received your report about the refugee recruits from the Crossroads. Thank you.”

He’s holding a wooden practice sword, still breathing heavily from sparring. His regular weapons, along with his armour and mantle, rest against a crate behind him. In a simple linen tunic and leather breeches, he could be easily confused for a mere foot soldier.

“Oh, ah. Good. Thank you for, well, bolstering our troops. The recruits are green, but they are eager to battle for Andraste’s Blessed Herald”.

_A Lady does not grimace,_ but I’m out of practice in hiding my reactions; there’s no use for the Game when you’re traversing the wilderness, after all. Unfortunately, the Commander’s eyes are quick to notice.

Before he can question my response, I gesture to the empty fields behind him.

“Mass desertion, Commander? Or have we finally decided to eradicate all those pesky bears in the Hinterlands? Because, if so, might I remark that Lady Cassandra, She Who Tackles Bears and Wins, is still using her significant talent on a training dummy over there.”

He laughs. Not a lordly chuckle, but an unguarded guffaw that rings in my ears.

“Seeker Pentaghast,” he smirks, “is reluctant to single-handedly abolish our bear-related worries, no matter how often I pester her about it. But no, the soldiers aren’t out collecting pelts; it’s their day off.”

“Day off? For _all_ of them? At once?”

A sharp voice chimes in from behind Cullen: “Well, unless ye have the misfortune of having the Commander ask ye to spar. Not much of an _ask_ , if you _ask_ me. But of course, Ser. Sounds bloody lovely, Ser. I wouldn’t rather be at the tavern with me mates, Ser.”

“Ignore Captain Rylen,” Cullen interjects with a smile, “he’s a bitter loser.”

“Oh, c’mon, then! Toss me your sword, ye great braggart. I’m off to enjoy my blighted day off!”

The Commander throws the wooden sword to the grumbling Captain behind him and places his hand on the back of his neck, the other fidgeting nervously with the end of his tunic.

A sudden realization hits me.

“Commander,” I ask without thinking, “do you… do you carry a sword just to have someplace to put your hands?” As the words leave my mouth, I immediately cringe. _A Lady does not … do **that**. _

“What? That’s – that’s preposterous! I’m the Commander of these forces,” he sputters, “At any time, I or the charges in my care could face danger of untold monstrosity. Maker’s breath, demons are falling from the sky _,_ Herald! I carry a sword because _demons are falling from the sky..._ “

I’m blanching and trying to find the words to smooth over such a horrific breach of etiquette – but then, suddenly, he grins at me, the scar on his lip pulling the smirk slightly askew.

“And yes,” he says.

“…Yes?”

“Yes, the sword also conveniently serves as a place to put my Maker-damned fidgeting hands. The Chantry mothers tried to smack the habit out of me, but,” he shrugs, “no luck in that endeavour.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and appraise his stance. His posture, vocal tone, diction, and general bearing are all rather noble – befitting that of a bann’s son, which he may very well be. But the hands… the hands give him away. 

“Well, Commander,” I begin, taking his left wrist in both my gloved hands gently. Maker, but even his forearm makes my hands look miniature. This close, he towers a full head above me. I pull one hand behind his back, fish for the other, and clasp them in the appropriate form.

“This is what they teach a nobleman’s son to do, Ser.” I mimic the pose so he can see its effect.

“It forces the shoulders back, the head high,” I explain. “You’ve no need for the posture adjustment, of course, but if you find yourself unarmed, it might serve better than pulling the strings of your tunic.” I’m tempted to wink when I finish adjusting him, but _a Lady does not wink,_ and the poor man is already beet red.

He wiggles for a moment, adjusting to the new position. Then scowls. “It feels as though I’m … judging or appraising everything around me.”

The accuracy of his assessment makes me laugh out loud. “Then you’ve got the right idea, Commander. You’re aiming for _imperious.”_ I stand abreast of him, _imperiously_ observing the walls of Haven.

“Well then, my lady, if you’re not otherwise occupied…” Maker bless the man, he blushes straight to the tips of his ears. “Would you care to imperiously appraise the soldiers’ snow battle?” He turns towards the lake.

“Don’t tell me the ever-overworked Commander is _also_ taking a day off?”

Cullen seems surprised at the jest. “What? No. I’d just like to assess their aim before I return to my paperwork.”

“Very well, then, Ser. It falls upon my path, regardless. I was headed to the forest.”

“Collecting more elfroot?” he inquires as we head to the lakeshore.

I squint. “How did you –“

His hand immediately jumps to the back of his neck again. “I saw you enter a few days ago and grew concerned. You later emerged with a whole month’s supply of elfroot – how you harvest more from a single plant than the rest of us, I’ll never know, but by the Maker, we’re glad for it.”

“My former mentor was an avid horticulturalist.”

“Ah.”

“You’re fidgeting again, Ser.”

I begin to wonder if the Commander just flushes easily or if he’s feverish.

“Commander, if I may… when you say you ‘grew concerned’…” I lift an eyebrow. It’s probably not worth the pain to pry, but I need to know. There are still folk that believe no mage should be left unsupervised for a single moment; presumably, some of those folk count themselves amongst the former Templars in Haven.

“Wolves,” he replies.

“Wolves?”

“Specifically, _possessed_ wolves. I read the Seeker’s report. You were injured fighting possessed wolves. She claims it was due to a ‘reckless disregard for personal safety in the presence of fade-touched animals’…”

I notice my own petulance and school my features; _a Lady does not pout._ “They were just wolves, Commander. Easier than fighting mabari, that’s for certain.”

“Well, then. Noted. If feral mabari infest these woods, I’ll know to increase my levels of concern,” he deadpans.

I chuckle and we fall into silence for a moment. We’re almost at the edge of the lake; in the distance, snowballs skyrocket and soldiers’ battle cries echo.

I can tell the Commander is about to speak again when he lifts his hand to his neck. Halfway there, he drops it and turns his gaze down to me, smirking slightly. “My lady, it seems you have me at a disadvantage, now.”

“Oh? How so, my lord?”

He clears his throat. “Oh, erm, not a lord, nor… I’ve no title, my lady. You may simply call me Cullen if you wish.”

“Commander Rutherford, you speak like a lord and now you stand like a lord. I shall call you whatever I feel like,” I match his smirk with one of my own.

“In that case, Lady Trevelyan, be so _kind_ as to place us on equal ground. You’ve found one of my most humbling secrets,” He gestures with his awkwardly floating hands. “My honour demands one of your own, to settle the score.” The same hands clasp elegantly behind his back.

“And why ever would I?” I scoff playfully. “I had to cleverly observe your secret shame for myself, and risk social retribution in unkindly pointing it out. Your bargain is unbalanced, Commander. I believe you’ll have to put equal effort into uncovering my own shortcomings and secrets.”

He nods with a laugh. “Very well, I suppose I can try. I do wonder what embarrassing secrets could belong to the Herald of Andraste?” He pauses. “Though, you don’t enjoy that title, do you?”

I want to shrug the question off. _A Lady does not shrug._

“It feels blasphemous, Ser. I doubt any good Andrastian would take kindly to being suddenly dubbed ‘The Maker’s Chosen One’ or somesuch.” I shake my head, trying to shake loose the bitterness. “I will try to gracefully bear the weight of the Inquisition’s hopes and dreams, Commander, but I’ll not claim to find the yoke appealing.”

The Templar hums for a moment. “Well spoken.”

We reach the frozen lake, walking towards the mass of soldiers in casual dress amidst a storm of pelted snowballs. A young man with a goofy grin runs past us, recognizing our faces at the very last moment.

“Commander Cullen, Ser!” he hastily salutes. “And Your Worship, Herald, erm…. Milady?” he stutters. It pains me to see his reckless joy dimmed into nervousness.

“Cadet Merson,” the Commander acknowledges. The boy scoots away.

We both halt in our path, the isolating weight of power uncomfortably falling like the snow.

“Perhaps I should return –“ the Commander begins, but I pull him gently by the elbow towards the old abandoned pier that was my original destination. Away from the war waged on the ice.

“Come along, Commander Rutherford. You want one of my ‘humbling secrets’? Perhaps I’ll help you dig one up. And we’ll have a perfectly acceptable view of the lake, perhaps even enough to assess your soldiers’ aim.”

He glances wistfully at the pier behind me, dutifully at the tents pitched upon the hill. With a small shake of his head, he chuckles quietly to himself.

“As you wish, Herald.” _A Lady does not sigh,_ but Maker’s breath, sometimes I’d like to.

I turn around to face him directly.

“Evelyn,” I correct.

His response is hesitant, voice quiet in the cold air. “Evelyn, then.”

The same voice is louder when he adds, “You’re not the only one who finds titles tiresome.”

“Oh?”

“Please. Call me Cullen.”

“Cullen, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo this chapter was supposed to be the conversation they have on the pier.   
> But these two... well, they talk a lot.   
> Hope the dialogue wasn't too hard to follow. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Expect an update within the week.


	3. A Currency of Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s try Cullen’s POV, shall we? This is a direct continuation of the previous chapter, so you’ll have to read that first. This is a long one – more than twice the usual length! Please let me know if you prefer this length or something shorter.

The Heral- _Evelyn_ leads us to an old dock at the far end of the lake, lofting above the waterline.

“This,” she gestures to the old, cracked wood, “is where I was headed. Not for elfroot. Though you can never have too much elfroot.”

I wait for her to elaborate, but she falls silent. I look over; she’s glaring at the pier as though it’s offended her, ‘ _imperiously’_ , as she said before. Hands fisted on her hips. She looks like Mia from this angle. Or how Mia looked ten years ago. If Mia had an intricate auburn braid and noble features and Fade-green eyes… and maybe the resemblance is all in my head after all.

“Ready for my humbling secret, Ser?” she cocks her head in my direction. She seems much more, well, _alive_ , right now. Usually her back is pin straight. Her voice is a practiced kind of musical, her expression is as unreadable as Leliana’s.

In the War Room, I’ve found myself looking more closely at her forehead than I should – even when we’re at our most vehement, she is utterly calm. She might as well be Tranquil.

But now, her voice is a little mischievous. Or perhaps I’m imagining it. Maybe I just miss Mia – which is ridiculous, since she’s practically a stranger by now. More accurately, perhaps I miss the idea of Mia. For the thousandth time since leaving Kirkwall, I think of my latest half-written letter, sitting abandoned on my desk.

My scattered thoughts are interrupted by a huff of effort as Evelyn jumps and lands with a graceful _thud_ on the thick ice _._ She jumps again, her arms stretched high above her head, and catches the end of the pier in her gloved hands.

Without thinking, I rush to help her, putting my hands tentatively on her back and waist.

“No, no, no – don’t help! I have to figure out how to do this!”

“What in the Maker’s name are you trying? You can go around!” I gesture sternly to the embankment beside the pier; it’s steep, but she should be able to scale it. More easily than – than whatever she’s attempting now, anyways.

“If I fall –“ she huffs in effort, trying to pull herself up by arm strength alone, “and crack my head open –“ she begins to kick her legs, trying for leverage, I suppose, “- feel free to get a healer.”

I dodge her swinging legs. There’s no way she has the arm strength to pull herself up – I doubt Ostwick provided its mages with physical conditioning, given that no other Circle did.

Instead, I jump up next to her right side; the distance is far less for me, and I can grip easily despite my bare hands. I shoot her a look that I hope says, _I’m humouring you but also think you’re mad._ She shoots me a look that says _show-off_ and Maker, it makes me miss Honnleath again.

I chortle and swing myself up with my legs, landing hard enough to shake the dock. She lands on her feet again. _Good_. She may be reckless, or mad, but at least she’s somewhat coordinated.

“Alright, Templar. Teach me, if you can.” Her arms are crossed.

I shake my head, offering her a hand. “Start by wielding a sword and shield every day, my Lady”.

“Nonsense. Solas can do it,” her voice is high, almost whining, and it makes me chuckle.

“Have you not seen Solas cut through a demon with his staff blade? I don’t think your strengths are comparable, Herald.”

“Evelyn,” she corrects absently.

“Evelyn,” I incline my head. “What’s this about?” I finally retract my hand and sit back on my knees. She seems frailer from this angle, and I wonder how many demons Solas and Cassandra and others have had to cut through to keep her little frame alive. The thought is unsettling.

She sighs. “The Hinterlands’ geography is predominately craggy. Sometimes it’s simply swifter to scale a cliffside, especially to reach a good plant, and I can’t pass by a good plant; Lydia’s spirit would find me and possess me just to make me slap myself... And Cassandra does it effortlessly, despite wearing a bronto’s barding’s worth of metal. Solas does it one-handed, staff in the other. Even Varric! _Varric._ ”

She’s definitely whining now, and I can see her as a young teenager, spoilt and gilded in the halls of her family’s estate. 

“Well, to be fair,” she continues, “Varric sometimes uses Bianca to propel himself upwards, but still. I can’t pull up my own weight, Cullen. Certainly you can notice the obviously troubling metaphor here. I’m daunted even to attempt it in front of anyone but Lysette; Maker knows how undignified I appear.”

“Ah, yes,” I jest, “the unforgiveable crime of indignity.”

She looks like she wants to stick her tongue out at me. Or hit me. Perhaps she’s considering that tickling spell. 

I try to be reassuring: “No one expects you to be a seasoned explorer, you know. Most mages can barely lift a pail of water, after all.”

“I refuse to be ‘most mages’, Commander.” Her voice is stern, convicted. Quieter, now: “I refuse to be a burden.” Her shoulders might be slight, but they are squared.

“Understood.” Reassuring words are not my strongest suit. But I’ve always been good at training. I tap the edge of the wood. “Place your hands here and here.”

“Was the former display not embarrassing enough, Cullen? The price of your secrets is high indeed,” she smirks.

“Swing your arms up as you jump,” I continue, “it will help you gain height. Just watch that you don’t smack your hands on the underside of the dock as you do so.”

She hesitates, but then complies.

“Instead of pulling straight up, swing yourself side to side.”

“Like a metronome?”

I’m unfamiliar with the word – perhaps a specialized magical device? – and cover my ensuing embarrassment with a cough. “Like a pendulum,” I respond instead.

Evelyn, Void take her, is far too observant. As she begins to swing, she explains, in that detached polite tone, “a metronome is a time-keeping device used in the mind-numbing musical instrument lessons favoured by Orlesian nobility.” I nod in acknowledgement, though I doubt she can see me.

“In a few swings, your feet will be high enough to hook one on the edge of the wood.” It’s much easier to discuss training than my ignorance. “From there, you can more or less clamber up.”

Evelyn, despite her misgivings, manages to hook her right foot on the ledge without slipping, and tries to pull herself upward. She’s almost there when her left knee slides off and she begins to fall. I can see her clutching the dock with her left arm and right hand, prepared to fall on her feet.

I’m faster, though. I manage to catch her by the waist and lift her up; the angle is awkward, but she’s a slight thing. I place her on the edge, legs swinging over, and she’s suddenly too close and I stutter and trip over my own thoughts.

“Orlesian?” I blurt.

She pulls back in confusion.

_Maker’s breath. Such a conversationalist, Rutherford._ “You said ‘Orlesian nobility’ – I thought you were from Ostwick?”

“Oh,” she grins, readjusting her broad wool skirts and facing the lake. Her hands fold gently in her lap, her back straightens. “My _grand-_ _mère._ Orlesian _._ She was tyrannical, to be quite honest. I still hear the ticking of the metronome in my nightmares. Should I ever face Desire, he’ll be lying on a bed of smashed metronomes, I’m sure of it.” Evelyn casts me a wry smile.

I envy how easily she can joke about such things. I, on the other hand, try to unclench my jaw before she can notice that, too. Fortunately, her gaze shifts across the ice to the handful of soldiers still practicing their aim.

“Thank you for answering one of my questions, by the way.” Her slightly mischievous smile has returned. Or perhaps it is smug.

“How so?” I inquire.

“I was wondering about your background. You’ve a last name, though not recognizable. You speak as if well-educated, noble-born; my first guess was the spare of some minor lord, maybe a Bann. But,” she lifted a finger primly, “you’ve never had formal decorum lessons. Nor music lessons. Common-born, then. But landed.”

“Landed?” I don’t bother to correct her assessments, surprised that she’s paid so much attention to begin with.

“Land-owning,” she amended. “Apologies, ‘landed’ is the snobbish noble term for it.”

I chuckle a little at that.

“Correct. Or at least, this is true of my family. My sister and her husband own a farm, on which my siblings are employed. Templars hold no social rank.”

“Nor do mages, but I can’t convince anyone to cease calling me ‘my lady’ any more than I can escape the title of ‘Herald’.... Hmm. Farmers, then? In Fereldan, obviously,” she adds with a small smile.

“Obviously?”

“Cullen, do you own a mirror? You’re perhaps the most Fereldan man ever to walk Thedas. All blonde and sunny and built of stone.”

I’m accustomed to disdain for my barbaric southern manners, implied even from Leliana and Josie and muttered startlingly often in the Kirkwall barracks. But Evelyn’s comment is perfectly neutral.

“Correct on all accounts, _my lady_. I’d offer you a similar assessment, but I fear you’d find me disingenuous. Sister Leliana handed me a report on your background while you recovered from the Breach.”

Evelyn’s responding laugh is relaxed and genuine and not particularly dignified, matched with a too-toothy grin.

“Of course she did. Did you know Lysette fed her a false tale of how Ostwick Circle fell? Damned brave, that woman. Or stupid, if I’m being less generous. I’m still awaiting the Nightingale’s realization and her disapproving glare. Or perhaps another pleasant interrogation.”

I try, unsuccessfully, to hide my surprise. Subterfuge is also not my strongest suit, but if the truth of Ostwick is relevant to Josephine or Leliana’s work, my duty to the Inquisition requires I uncover it.

“That seems a more significant secret than your poor upper body strength, Heral- _Evelyn_. Perhaps we should have another trade?”

She hums and considers me carefully.

“Are you particularly competitive, Commander?”

“Cullen,” I correct.

“I would like to suggest a game, Cullen.”

“I’m terrible at Wicked Grace, and not much for gambling…”

“No, no, no,” she waves a hand gracefully. “A better game than that. Lysette and I used to play it during boring Circle announcements.”

She looks directly at me, sharp eyes appraising my reaction.

I clear my throat, hand on my neck, and nod nervously. _For the Inquisition,_ I remind myself.

“Oh, don’t look so nervous, Cullen. It’s simple: you guess a fact about me – I’m trusting your Fereldan honesty will keep you from cheating and just using something from Leliana’s report; if you guess correctly, it’s my turn. If you’re mistaken, you must tell me one of your secrets. Something you would never wish your troops to know.”

My heart leaps to my throat. Immediately, the darkest scars I harbour come to mind; the shimmering cage of Kinloch, the dull, distant injustices of Kirkwall, the awful things I thought and allowed and _no, I cannot show her this darkness._ She’d run screaming. She’d be right to.

I swallow uneasily. Risk a glance to my right.

Evelyn’s face has fallen from mischievous to concerned. “I don’t mean to presume, Cullen, we needn’t…” she pauses, hands clasping delicately in her lap again. “Commander, I pray you’ll pardon my prying. If I’m to insist on my right to privacy, I owe you much the same.”

Her voice is tranquil again.

I find I already miss the Evelyn that laughed beside me a moment ago – this very realistic doll is just a sad reflection of her. I can be stronger than this. I must.

“Your laugh,” I begin carefully, “was discouraged by whoever taught your decorum lessons. You hide it.”

Her response was a hint of that genuine laugh: “Discouraged? A mild term. It was strictly forbidden by my tutor. _A Lady laughs gracefully and graciously or not at all.”_

I snort. _Nobility_.

“You,” she draws the word out, hands moving idly in her lap as she relaxes. “You are the oldest child.”

My eyebrows raise. “And how do you reach that conclusion?”

“Simple: I’ve never met someone so _serious_ who wasn’t.” Her smile is somewhat infectious.

“Wrong.”

“Wrong?!”

“Wrong,” I confirm. Beside me, her brow furrows and she pouts. _Pouts,_ like a chastised child.

“I suppose you’re owed a secret, then.” Evelyn bites her lip for a moment, considering her words.

“I steal herbs,” she admits. “Well, not technically _stealing_ , I suppose, though it certainly feels like theft. Whenever gathering materials for the Inquisition, I hide a small portion away in my cabin. If you’re ever desperate for an elfroot tonic or spindleweed paste, you can likely find it stockpiled under my bed.”

“That’s not so terrible–“ I object, but she meets me with a stern look.

“If you’d found a stash of potions and herbs under a mage’s bed in Kinloch, what would you have done, Ser?”

“Reported them for discipline,” I respond, resigned. Familiar shame rises in my throat.

“And how many Templars are there currently in Haven, Commander?” Her tone is light, unjudging.

“Twenty-two.” I do not include myself in the tally.

“There you go – a secret I wouldn’t wish the Inquisition at large to know. Your turn to take a guess!”

I struggle to match her light-hearted demeanor. But if the ugly histories of Circles are already breached, I can use it to my advantage: “Your first romantic interest was a Templar,” I guess. It’s a very common occurrence, could unveil something about Ostwick, and worth the risk.

“Incorrect!” she exclaims with glee, her hands continuing their idle motions. “Stable boy. In fact, my first three lovers were all stable hands. I suppose you could draw your own conclusions about that,” she wrinkles her nose and I chuckle.

“That you appreciate horses?”

“Commander!” Evelyn gasps. “Did your briefing not include the fact that Trevelyan horses are prized in the Free Marches? Our stock is the most beautiful in Thedas. Sixteen hands and hair slick as satin.”

“Truly? I may have to re-imagine how your conversation with Master Dennet went, then.”

She shrugs with a delicate snicker.

“I let the man keep to his delusions, obviously. The Inquisition needed mounts, even if they were second-rate, plow-pulling, mud-encrusted beasts. I reasoned that our soldiers wouldn’t notice the difference.”

“I’m sure Lady Josephine appreciates your diplomacy. Speaking of which – my secret is that I understand Orlesian dining etiquette.”

She furrows her brow. “And how in the void is that a dark, embarrassing secret, Comman- Cullen? Rutherford? I’m calling you Rutherford, now, whenever you’re being ridiculous,” Evelyn declares. Her tone brokers no argument, and there’s something comforting in the comradery of her teasing.

“If Josie knew,” I respond solemnly, “I’d have to join in the preposterous dinners she hosts for visiting Orlesian nobles. I can think of no worse fate.”

Evelyn smiles broadly towards the lake. Her face portrays her approval. 

“Well, then. Your first romantic interest was a mage,” she accuses with certainty.

I think of Solona’s sweet smile and my young, pattering heart. “Well-guessed.”

A few moments pass in silence, Evelyn’s hands dancing idly in her lap. The air has turned cooler as the sun begins to dip behind the mountains. Twilight will last for another hour – beyond that, an unrelenting stack of paperwork waits to welcome me in my tent with candlelight.

Evelyn’s teasing voice interrupts my reverie again: “You’re scowling, Cullen. Can’t think of something to guess? Does that mean you forfeit?”

I point my scowl towards her as if to say _of course not,_ and she smiles brightly in return. Nagging duties are promptly forgotten.

“I’ll give you a hint towards an easy one, then. As a matter of pity, of course” she smirks. “ _’Ex’_ -Templar or not, you can probably figure out what I’ve been casting the last while.”

A sudden chill runs down my spine. _Casting?_ She’s been _casting magic_ all this time? How could I not notice her hands? The lyrium’s song is so loud, so burning, makes it harder to hear and feel the pull of the Fade, but surely…

_What has she been casting?_

_How would I subdue her?_

I try to bite back my fear, my instinctive reaction to defend myself. Fool that I am, my sword is back in Haven. I sit alone, unarmed, without lyrium, next to a _mage_ who is _actively casting_ and I am completely _toothless._

Evelyn sighs, a resigned sound.

“Here, Commander,” she states flatly and shifts to literally sit on her hands. “I’d hoped to be established as non-threatening by now, but I understand it’s not that simple.”

Another time, her stone-faced acceptance would have pulled at my guilt, but my heart is still hammering in well-rehearsed panic.

“Are you familiar with Massache’s Method, Cullen?” Her tone is light, careful, and the question throws me.

“Of course.” My voice sounds steady, _thank the Maker._

“You’ve read it?”

“Of course. Wait, have _you_?”

She chuckles quietly. “Not the sword techniques, obviously; I find them rather impractical to my daily endeavours. Lysette was reading it, though, and shared the ‘Disciplines’ section with me. Tell me, Cullen, how’s your memory?”

The longer she sits on her hands and speaks calmly, the easier it is to breathe.

“Perfunctory.”

She smiles wanly and recites, in flawless Orlesian accent,

_“The true competitor of each soldier is his own self and heart; should he wish to best his enemies, he must first best himself. Each and every morn and eve, upon the light of dawn and dusk, he must train until he can train no more. Only in draining his well of strength can he deepen it.”_

I remember the passage.

Evelyn takes a measured breath before continuing. “Each day since my Harrowing, under the careful eye of our Templars – usually Lysette – I would cast until I was out of mana. Innocuous things, wards and lights, and the like. My mana pool has expanded immensely as a result. Being lower on mana also made me, well, less appetizing prey in the Fade. Fewer demons bother me.”

I try to swallow her words calmly.

“I come out here to cast in peace; I no longer require oversight, and should I wish to conduct any magical experiments… well, I have a deal with Lysette that stipulates I need her approval to do so.”

She sighs again, and I find I dislike the grim smile that pulls at her lips.

“I recognize my word is rather moot to you, Commander, but ask Lysette about it at your leisure - ”

“What were you casting?” I blurt. My voice is too gruff, too demanding, and only her now-tranquil composure hides her flinch.

“I’m melting the lake.”

The situation is so tense and the thought is so ridiculous that I laugh. I laugh out loud and she turns to me with a shy smile, again too toothy, and I laugh some more.

“You’re… _melting…_ the _entire lake?”_

“Indeed. A little bit at a time, of course, bottom up.”

“Maker’s breath. But why?”

“The top layers are exposed to too much of this frigid air, not to mention falling snow. Naturally, in spring, some water sources thaw from the bottom up –“

“No,” I interrupt her, “not ‘why bottom-up’, why are you _melting the lake,_ Evelyn?”

“Oh.” It’s getting darker, but I swear she blushes. “Many reasons. Fishing for a broader diet for the soldiers. Easy washing water for the villagers and infirmary. Because it takes a lot of mana in a slow, steady release.”

“And you come out here _alone_ every evening?”

“I return before dark, Rutherford.”

“Maker’s breath, Evelyn, you’ve no combat skills outside magic. If you’re drained, how would you defend yourself? From assassins? Wolves?”

She laughs gently and it breaks through my anger and panic like a lullaby.

“Next to my cache of elfroot tonics is a cache of very potent lyrium potions, Cullen. Regardless of Lady Cassandra’s reports, I’m not reckless. I can handle myself.”

“And if you fall down somewhere and have to pull yourself up?” I challenge.

She makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a giggle: “I knew I’d regret telling you my humbling secrets.”

The sheer mundanity of Evelyn’s magical practices begins to dawn on me. Kinloch Hold was a bloodbath of demonic ambition; Kirkwall was a bloody, festering wound that I couldn’t fix. A mage fell from the sky with our salvation embedded in her hand; she could have been bloodthirsty, cruel. Instead, she spends her evenings _melting a lake_ to make life more _convenient_ for the common-folk.

I turn to find her already standing, dusting off her skirts.

“Come along, Cullen,” she says quietly, “it’s getting dark and cold and I’ll not be responsible for keeping you from recovery.”

“Recovery?”

She quirks an eyebrow at me, imperiously.

“You’re ill, Rutherford, don’t think I didn’t take notice. You’re feverishly warm, a mere tunic in this weather without a shiver. Despite it, I could feel your hands when you lifted me and I’ve cast _ice_ warmer than them. Not to mention, your exhaustion is so great that unknown casting not a handbreadth away from you went unnoticed.”

She doesn’t realize that there’s no recovery for me; these symptoms, from the lyrium, won’t be healed like a bad cold.

Nonetheless, she continues as we walk back to Haven: “You’ll report to your tent, eat stew, take a tonic, and get a full night’s rest.”

“Yes, Ser,” I respond with a sarcastic salute.

Her answering smirk is haughty.

“I’ll send the Seeker if I’ve reason to believe you’re not following orders, Commander.”

“And I should fear her?”

“She tackled a _bear_ , Cullen.”

“And you can apparently melt an entire _lake_ , but I don’t fear _you,_ ” I retort. Somewhere between the dock and Haven’s tents, I realize, the words became true.

Evelyn’s answering smile is probably warm enough to melt the rest of the lake.

***

In the end, I still work late into the evening, though distracted by the day’s lengthy conversations. Mulling over them, I shamefully forget to inform Leliana of her misinformation regarding Ostwick Circle’s recent history.

When I awake in the morning, I find I don’t want to.

I reason, instead, that Evelyn and I never concluded our game, and that I could gather the information less _invasively_ than the spymaster would. It is, perhaps, an unwarranted mercy towards Evelyn; then again, sitting on her hands was an unwarranted mercy towards me.

Perhaps it is merely the nature of mercy to be unwarranted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!   
> The first half of this chapter is brought you by falling off that pier at Haven's lake and being unable to climb back up. Stupid invisible walls.  
> The second half is brought to you by Cullen’s lingering PTSD and Evelyn’s inventive uses of magic – both of which you’ll see more of in future chapters.


	4. Intrusions and Invasive Magics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Received comments on last chapter = much greater enthusiasm to write = updates happen quickly.  
> It’s a great formula, folks! ;)   
> Anyways, some more conversation between two silly souls just barely getting to know each other, hopping POVs. I love the intimacy of first person, but I hate all the details and nuances missed by a singular perception.   
> But ehhh what can you do

**Cullen POV**

There are better days, and there are worse days.

Cassandra knows that today is a worse day when I pull her from her training dummy and implore her to spar with me.

I’ve left the recruits with a lieutenant and instructions. Maker, but delegation is such a convenient excuse to shamble away from my responsibility.

I can only thank muscle memory for my good form. My vision spins. My muscles slacken. Nonetheless, I manage to go through the motions.

Cassandra does not hesitate to give me a bruise or two when I deserve them; this is how I know she approves of my perseverance, of my endurance.

When we finish, I laugh, and it is mirthless. _Endurance._ How can it be called that? I am a husk of the warrior I was and _I should be taking it._ Cassandra would find a better opponent in her patched-up training dummy. Yet she clasps my shoulder and gives me a nod, a terse smile.

We don’t need words. We both know that today, like many before it, is just a worse day.

It is nearing dusk by the time I’ve completed the bare minimum for that day, and done so poorly: recruits berated instead of corrected, requisitions accepted and denied based on the captain’s recommendations as the words spun on the parchment before me.

I’ve missed dinner, served _en_ _masse_ to the soldiers by the gate entrance. I must go to the tavern or Chantry to find something. My churning stomach is in no hurry.

Leliana’s eyes are too sharp; go to the Chantry and she’ll have another reason to question my merit.

The tavern, on the other hand, is filled with soldiers – and with Varric, who sees too much; with Blackwall, who recognizes pain too easily. Someone will notice how their bold leader’s hands shake around a tankard.

But this tent, too, is a suffocation – I exit abruptly, frightening the poor cadet who takes messages at the entrance.

“Commander,” Rylen salutes to my left.

“Captain.”

“Off to the tavern, Ser?” Damned man knows I missed dinner; he was with me, planning reroutes in the Hinterlands.

I snort; we had to reroute in order to escape a new ambush location - it is humorously relevant right now. My eyes glance across the frozen lake, stopping on the edge of Evelyn’s pier visible in the distance.

“Afraid not, Captain. I must debrief with the Herald before nightfall. I’ll be by later.”

Today, I do not wait for his response before sounding my retreat.

Later, when my mouth is not so dry or my headache so severe, I will feel guilty for my abrasive tone.

Later, I will feel guilty for invading Evelyn’s solace to seek my own.

But today… today is one of the worse days.

**Evelyn POV**

He sets off the wards when he approaches; he likely notices, as well, _templar and all,_ but seems unconcerned by them. It makes me smile a bit to have earned this trust, no matter how slim.

I can’t get up without ruining my focus, but I can turn my head and nod politely: “Good evening, Commander; to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Somehow, he seems surprised at the question, unprepared for it. His hand goes to the back of his neck and he shifts awkwardly: “Uh, well, I just wanted to go over the, that is, your…”

He sighs, and I raise my eyebrow in question.

“I’m escaping from a captain trying to drag me to the tavern,” he admits. The sun still rests above the horizon, and his cheeks nicely match the reddening sky.

My smile broadens; his bashfulness also explains his brisk pace in approaching.

“By all means, then, escape! I wouldn’t suggest running across the lake in retreat, however.” _A Lady does not brag,_ but I cannot help myself: “the ice here is precariously thin; it’s almost entirely thawed beneath this pier.”

His comes closer, inspecting the ice below the wood as he walks. He peers over the edge with a soldier’s gruff inspection. “Good progress, then, Herald.”

I drop the spell for a moment to smack his leather boot with the back of my hand. I can practically hear my mother’s refined gasp: _a Lady does not resort to violence._

“My name is Evelyn, Cullen, and if you’re going to use my last vestige of solitude to escape, you’d better call me by it.”

He laughs out loud, properly chastised. Slowly, he lowers himself on the dock beside me, feet dangling over the edge as we did the first time.

A silence follows, not too uncomfortably.

“I am, er, grateful, my lady,” he begins. “For hiding me away in your shelter.”

I wave him off with a smile. “It’s no shelter, Cullen. We’re out in the open where any eyes can peer. The only refuge is in the unapproachable nature of our positions. If anything, you have my thanks for making my retreat more secure.”

He chuckles again, and I find I enjoy the rumbling sound. “Is there any compliment you diplomats can’t turn around?”

“Theoretically? No. But I find it much easier to spin the insults than the compliments, personally.”

“Who in their right mind insults the Herald of Andraste?”

“You _have_ met Chancellor Roderick, correct?”

“Ugh. Please, don’t say that blasted man’s name. You’ll worsen my headache.”

I pause and consider him more closely; there are dark rings under his brown eyes, and pain in the corners of them. He sits with his shoulders tight. His fingers play with the edge of his mantle.

“Cullen,” I begin tentatively, “I’ve an inquiry for you. I hope you won’t find it too – prying.”

“Inquire away, Evelyn. I consider your questions mere fees for peace.”

“Oh?” I smirk, “Insinuating that there’ll be no peace until I finish speaking, Rutherford?”

“ _No_! Maker’s breath, I, uh, I meant your solace. Your peace here. The pier. The peaceful pier that you –“ he glimpses my smirking face and stutters to a halt.

“You imp,” he scolds. I imagine that, were I his fellow soldier, he’d have punched me in the arm.

I can’t help but laugh into my hand, interrupting my casting. The lake can wait a moment, I suppose. “I apologize, good Ser. _A Lady does not tease,_ after all.”

“Give me your teasing over your diplomacy any day.”

Cullen is often serious, the ever-austere Commander, so the sincere expression he casts me now shouldn’t faze me; but it does. I avert my gaze, cheeks hot.

“I meant only to ask you, Cullen, how you feel about functional magic?”

“Functional?” He looks at the lake.

“Sometimes called ‘mundane’ magics, the less exciting uses for the typically destructive forces of the Fade. Magic to heat bath water, or chill wine, or … or, say, tickle a mischievous friend.”

“Are you asking for my approval to torment Lysette with tickling? Because I don’t believe it my place to grant you that.”

I laugh and cover my face all at once, embarrassed. “No, _Maker,_ no! If we could all forget about that incident, I’d be well pleased. No, I just meant… do you fear magic, Cullen?”

He tenses and his posture becomes _unfathomably_ _more rigid._ There is a long pause. I recalculate; something in my phrasing or my tone or – I must have erred.

“No,” he whispers.

The word is so quiet, but he says it with such a clenched jaw, such an anger that I wring my hands. The lake is forgotten; I’ve a new project with which to drain my mana now.

_A Lady takes a Gentleman at his word;_ this lovely piece of didactic advice has always been rather useless amongst noblemen: none of them know how to speak their mind clearly. All statements are petty, pithy, or perfidious.

But Cullen? Cullen should be taken at his word.

“That… I am glad to hear it. What I’m about to do is simple mundane magic; heating and cooling, like making ice or melting a lake.”

He nods, absently. “You - you don’t need my approval, Evelyn. You’re a harrowed mage, and a good one. Whatever practices you deem worthy, I… the Inquisition can trust to be well-managed.”

My heart hums a little at the validation, as it always does.

“If you say so…” I shoot him a knowing grin.

He squints back. “Will I be regretting that statement, Trevelyan?”

“Oh, now _you’re_ resorting to family names, Rutherford? Such deficient originality.”

“We can’t all be one-of-a-kind beings who fall from the Fade, you know.”

“No, no – some of us must be gruff and surly Fereldans who’ve mastered Orlesian dinner etiquette,” I glare at him, or attempt to – the smile is an impediment. “Tell me, how did apprehend that knowledge, anyway? And have you ever even stepped foot into Orlais?”

“Books, and no.”

“Books?”

“The Circle library had several interesting tomes.”

“And you sought out the one about _etiquette?_ ”

“ _Maker,_ no! It was a very thorough dissertation of the Chevalier’s Code of Conduct.”

I hum and give him a skeptical glance.

He laughs and swings a heavy boot to knock lightly with mine. “You know, previously, you’d only receive such information as a penalty to a game. What makes you believe I should be so generous now?”

It’s impossible not to rise to the taunt: “Perhaps gambling’s not the right course of action for us sophisticated, etiquette-minded sorts, Rutherford. Perhaps it should instead be a game of trades.”

“Trades?”

“Yes; I’ll answer any question you have, if you answer any question of mine. Do be careful, though, Ser: if you seek out my darkest secrets, I’ll only be compelled to return the favour.”

He goes a little pale at that, and I remember my previous plans.

“One more thing,” I add in my best _Lady Trevelyan_ voice, replete with graceful finger-wagging: “the Game of Trades ends if you impede my magical endeavours tonight.”

He frowns and smirks in one swift motion, taking the bait. “Agreed.”

I reach my hand across the distance and gently place it on the side of his neck, burrowing through the maze of his mantle to find skin.

He _jumps._ A seasoned, veteran soldier, who jumps at the slightest contact. The man is an enigma.

“Sorry!” I quickly amend. “Just required the correct base temperature; I promise, no more touching after this point.”

“Required for wha-“ Cullen’s breath catches as I lightly sweep his forehead with an invisible cooling touch, lingering on the temples, streaking into his hair.

“Headache relief,” I say, my voice measured and soft.

If his face is any indication, there is a war waging in his mind of whether to allow it.

“Cullen? It’s your turn to ask me something. Anything you’d like.”

He grimaces, then swallows thickly. “How did Ostwick Circle… that is, how did you become known as – what was it – Ever-Smitten-Evelyn?”

I laugh, hearty and hiccupping. “I commend your memory, Cullen; I haven’t that name in what feels like years. I’ll tell you the truth, but I’m curious: why do _you_ think I earned the moniker?”

He hums, considering. As he does, I silently warm the skin of his neck, sinking deep. I’ll push the heat, slow and subtle, down into his shoulders to ease the tension there. He swallows again, once, twice.

“I thought at first it was because you were easily infatuated: ever smitten with whichever mage or Templar caught your fancy. But then I learned something interesting about stable boys…” he gives me a savage smirk, and I knock his boot in retaliation.

“I now believe,” he continues, “that it is a play on words. The Holy Smite, perhaps?”

“Excellent leadership _and_ excellent deduction; wherever did the Inquisition find you, Ser?”

He coughs and blushes and then suddenly stifles a _groan_ when I roll the lingering heat down his back, sinking deep into the muscles there.

“Maker’s breath, Trevelyan, what did they teach at your Circle? If the rest of the Order knew Ostwick’s mages could undo battle bruises like this, the requests for transfer would have been overwhelming.”

“Ha! You jest, but Lysette once seduced a Templar by sneaking me into the room to heat his muscles like this. She claimed it was a salve: secret family recipe.”

Cullen’s responding laugh is loud enough to echo across the lake.

“And, to answer your question,” I say with a smile, “yes, it was because I was so often subject to the Smite. It was a much-preferred alternative to Tranquility, after all. And now, whenever a rogue templar in the Hinterlands sends a pathetic, rushed Smite my way, I can watch the smile melt from his face as it simply rolls off me, ineffectual.”

“To clarify: you watch the smile melt from his face – and then _you_ melt his face? Or is it simultaneous?”

“Commander! A _Lady_ would never do something so vicious or vindictive!”

“Cassandra’s reports are very detailed, Evelyn.”

“Very well, Maker find me guilty; some men need a fireball to the face every now and then.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he chuckles, then lies back. The sun has fallen behind the horizon and darkness is setting in; Cullen seems unrushed.

“Thank you, Evelyn.” His eyes are closed.

“I’m merely draining my mana, Rutherford. Think nothing of it.”

“I’m happy to serve the position of ‘Lake’, if that’s the case.”

I hum happily. “I’m unconvinced, Cullen. The Lake provides dietary and hygienic improvements. What can one poor man offer in comparison?”

“If you’ll allow my intrusion into your solace a while longer, I can offer stories of a few escapades as ridiculous as Lysette’s family salve recipe?”

“A most mutually-beneficial arrangement,” I cry with a laugh. I fall backwards, gracelessly, eyes scanning the darkening sky for signs of starlight. There is a little too much green to enjoy the view.

“Cullen,” I add, seriously, “so long as I can continue my casting, your company is no intrusion.”

“I… thank you,” he replies.

“And should you ever need to escape a tavern, or an Orlesian dinner, or Cassandra’s unjustified aggression in a sparring match – you can seek me out, Cullen.”

He fidgets with his vambrace, clearly unsure how to respond. I sweep warmth through his shoulders again, comforting. Coolness across his brow.

“Tell them…” I muster my courage. “Tell them you wish to discuss acquiring Trevelyan mounts for the Inquisition.”

He turns his head towards me, an eyebrow quirked. “ _Could_ we acquire Trevelyan mounts for the Inquisition? I hear they’re the most beautiful in all Thedas.”

I meet his mirthful gaze with a sadness I cannot keep from my eyes. “That’s a question for a later Game of Trades, Ser. For now – I believe I’m owed a hilarious tale of youthful misadventure.”

Maker bless him, he understands. And, lying on the dock, he tells me stories that make our laughter seem to push the Breach a little farther way, call the stars a little closer to Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are better days and there are worse days. Today was a better day, folks. 
> 
> This chapter was surprisingly difficult, but the next few are already drafted. (!!!)
> 
> And, if you hadn’t noticed, there are large gaps in Cullen and Evelyn’s backstories that they haven’t discovered of each other yet; if Evelyn’s perspective doesn’t make sense to you yet, it (hopefully) will eventually. 
> 
> Anyways thanks for reading!


	5. Of Friendships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a turn of events that surprised literally no one, this chapter is … more conversation?!? :O
> 
> It was a very long one, so now it’s awkwardly split in two.
> 
> All in Cullen’s stilted, stunted perspective. Yay?

I never intended for this to become a habit, but I suppose it has. Every few evenings, especially when the withdrawals render me bloody _useless_ , I join Evelyn at her dock.

If she regrets her generosity, she shows no reluctance.

But she shows every other emotion so _effusively._ Evelyn, it turns out, talks with her hands. And casts her spells – an intricate network of heat runes that she slowly spans across the lakebed, she explains – while simultaneously gesturing with her delicate little fingers.

I find her fingers somewhat distracting.

And, like the fool I am, I put my boot firmly in my mouth and tell her this.

“My… fingers?” She pulls a face.

I thank the Maker for the dim light of dusk, because I’m certainly blushing.

“Yes. Well, it’s just, they’re so _small,_ but you’re a _mage.”_

She gives me a look.

“Cullen, I’m not exactly lifting a battle-axe every day. I barely use my staff. Am I supposed to have exemplary musculature on my fingers because I … wave them gently through the air on occasion?”

I can’t help but laugh: “No, nothing like that – I just meant – ”

“Oh, good,” she interrupts, “I was worried the Commander was going to chastise me for neglecting my pinky strength training!”

“Maker forbid,” I nod solemnly, “a good warrior is nothing without the strength of his little finger, after all.”

She swats her hand toward me, contact softened by the mantle covering my shoulder.

I shake my head, chuckling. “I meant, there is so much _power_ in your hands, but they’re so… fragile. I single shield-bash could crush them.” The thought is more than a little unsettling. “Have you considered gauntlets?”

She laughs, but concern is quickly twisting in my stomach.

“I’m quite serious, Evelyn, what happens if your hands are injured in combat?”

Her laugh rings out louder, loud enough to include an indelicate snort. I’m unmoved: “Are those the gloves you wore in the Hinterlands? Harritt should see about adding some plating. Or a pinch-guard, at the least. If not, we could requisition something strong but maneuverable –“

“Cullen, please, no more!” Evelyn has curled in on herself, swaying in her laughter.

“I’m afraid I don’t see the jest, Herald.”

“Oh, Maker. You’re serious, aren’t you?” She looks at me with mirth and confusion in equal measure.

“Dead serious, Evelyn.” The thought of her mangled fingers, her abysmally light armour so useless against a sword…

“Cullen, how long did you train to become a Templar?”

“Five years, formally.”

“And how long were you a Templar?”

“Another eleven years.”

“I won’t ask how many mages you’ve had to fight,” my heart stops for a moment; I am grateful when she continues on without a pause: “but it seems fair to assume you’ve been thoroughly trained in the art.”

I nod, carefully.

“And you’re _only_ _just now_ considering that mangling a mage’s hands is an effective counter-attack.”

It dawns on me that she’s correct.

“Maker’s breath,” I mutter. “That’s… well, _oversight_ seems an understatement.”

Evelyn chuckles lightly. “I can’t tell you how many idiot Templars could have cut off my hands, or even pinned me down, but no…” she drawls the sound out leisurely. “It’s always _Smite, Silence,_ or _Run Through with Sword._ ”

I stare out at the lake, considering.

“So… no gauntlets, then?”

Her laugh is beautiful and clear and ends with another delightful snort.

“Not unless you plan to issue missives to all the rogue templars, informing them of their inadequate training.”

“I wouldn’t dare; it would be an administrative nightmare and Josie would never forgive me.”

“I’m hurt, Cullen,” she feigns injury. “You fear our Ambassador’s ire over mine?”

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.

Her voice is quieter and warm in the chill air. “Smart man. Never bet against an Antivan.”

A silence falls, but it is never heavy. Nothing like a shadow, nothing like duty; it rests on our shoulders light as snow. The sun has almost set. Another evening is ending.

She’s moving her hands in her lap, absently, unceasingly. When I focus on it, I can hear the quiet humming of magic as she casts, can use it to drown out the lyrium’s call. It’s subtle, and strangely calming.

“How’s the headache tonight?”

She always asks. Never right away: she insists on treating her uniquely therapeutic magic as a casual afterthought – whether to spare my pride or hers, I’m not sure. Sometimes it’s her second question, sometimes the Game of Trades steals a full hour before she offers.

“I can endure it.”

“ _I can endure it,_ ” she mimics. It’s so _childish_ I can’t help but snort.

 _“I’m the Commander of these forces,”_ she continues, scowling and swinging her hand in a _terrible_ estimation of a left parry.

I chortle and catch her left wrist, stilling the movement. “That’s _not_ how you swing a sword.”

She giggles but stops her teasing. Her right hand completes her spell with a familiar flourish – distractedly, I wonder if my recognition means I’ve spent too much time watching her cast. I want to look away, to clear my throat.

Instead, I sigh as a familiar chill spreads across my aching brow. Warmth sinks into my neck and shoulders and back and _Maker,_ nothing short of a bright blue philter feels as good as this.

“Thank you,” I whisper, as always. I release her wrist. My smile is large and unabashed.

“Cullen,” she ventures with suspicious eyes. “Are you ever free of these aches? Or do you always merely… endure.”

I wish I could tell her the truth.

Instead: “they come and pass with regularity. It is worse in the evenings.” Some truth is better than none, I suppose.

She purses her lips and nods, inspecting the lake.

This silence is heavier, but when she stands, she offers me a peaceful smile. Another evening has passed; we return politely to Haven before dark.

It’s become a habit, I suppose. I can only hope it is a habit easier to kick than others I’ve adopted.

***

It is frankly _unnerving_ to see the Herald across the War Table.

She bears only the slightest resemblance to Evelyn: all gracious nods and muted acknowledgements.

She holds her animated hands still, clasped gently before her.

She calls me ‘Commander’ in a measured, respectful voice.

It’s driving me _mad_. My headache and shaking hands surely aren’t helping.

For today’s council, all I wish is to hear Evelyn’s insight on expanding Haven’s stables to accommodate foaling mares. On our – _the_ dock, she speaks so knowledgeably, so fondly of time spent amongst her family’s horses.

She offers, instead, to help Josephine write a letter to the Trevelyan equine husbandry expert.

This Herald will be the death of my patience.

Or so I think, until the conversation shifts again to mages and templars and wars and _choosing sides_ and leaving the Order doesn’t mean I can _abandon_ my brethren and Leliana doesn’t comprehend that sort of loyalty, because Maker knows there isn’t a friend she wouldn’t kill if she thought she had to.

The room spins again; I grip the table calmly. Leliana makes a snide comment about prejudice; I can barely hear her over the thudding in my temple.

Suddenly, the familiar heat and chill and comfort of Evelyn’s magic washes over me like a balm.

I exhale and make my next point calmly, avoiding eye contact by moving pieces across the table. When I look up, Evelyn’s face is composed. _Of course it is._ Josephine writes her notes vigorously as Leliana peruses a report.

Cassandra, on the other hand, stares at Evelyn with fury in her gaze.

I grimace.

There is no hope the Seeker will ignore casual magic in the War Room.

When the meeting ends, Cassandra asks Evelyn to stay behind a moment. She nods politely in return.

Andraste preserve me, but I want to stick my ear to the door and eavesdrop like a naughty child. Leliana and Josephine clearly share my sentiment, but we all know we’ll hear about it from Cassandra later. And I know that Evelyn, like the respectful Circle mage she is, will tell her everything.

The only question is whether Cassandra will admonish my foolishness with words, with her sword, or with both.

***

Cassandra doesn’t seek me out by the next evening, and I’m uninterested in hanging around like an urchin in the Chantry, waiting to be berated. I find her sitting on a crate near her training dummy, reading a book.

She blushes and hides it quickly once she hears my approach. Probably another romance serial: the ferocious warrior still somehow believes that, after days trapped in a tiny cabin on the roiling waves of the Waking Sea, I never noticed her collection of tawdry romances. I allow a small grin.

“Commander.”

“Seeker Pentaghast.”

She eyes me carefully. “Are you here to spar? There is still some daylight we can make use of.”

It’s barely dusk. I try not to look for Evelyn on her pier – foolish, because I can only barely make out the dock from here, and it’s not like she’s _waiting_ for me.

“Perhaps another time. I’m here to inquire about your conversation with the Herald.”

“Oh, that. Yes.” To my surprise, she… blushes?

“I owe you thanks, Cullen. And I should learn to follow your example. You have … impressed me. I did not expect you to put Kirkwall behind you so soon.”

I keep my face passive, because if my nightmares are anything to go by, Kirkwall’s horrors are still alive and festering well on the nape of my neck.

“Cass…”

“The Herald was simply casting a modified rune to warm herself. She is easily cold. A useful bit of mundane magic, as she called it. And I, like the very Templars I so easily condemn, was ready to draw my blade.”

Cassandra sighs and hangs her head. “I should have responded as you did. More measured in my actions. More patient with a trusted companion and … and friend. Maker, what she must think of me. I trust her to cast a barrier over me in battle but not a meager spell across a table.”

She looks up. Cassandra has a certain way of looking you dead in the eyes.

“I must do better,” she proclaims. “You showed me that yesterday.”

She stands and grasps my shoulder. With a terse smile and a nod, she takes her book and walks toward the smithy – likely looking for a quieter corner in which to read.

“Seeker–” I call after her, “speak to her. I doubt she disparages you as easily as you disparage yourself.”

Cassandra stops. “The Maker blesses me with wise friends, Commander. Do you know where I could find her?”

I swallow awkwardly. It feels like overstepping to let her intrude on Evelyn’s solace - but is that not exactly what I’ve been doing? What gives me the right? Perhaps she’d rather have Cassandra’s company…

“There’s a pier near the forest, a little out of the way.” I rub the back of my neck. “She’s usually there sometime in the evenings. Just don’t,” I falter, “just don’t linger too long. The expectations we’ve put on her are undeniably – well, she simply deserves some peace.”

“You care for her.” Cassandra has turned her hawk-like gaze to me again.

“What?”

“Nothing; just an idle observation. I am … glad you are able to put fear behind you and see that she is worthy of your respect.”

“I will not be the man that judges all mages the same, Seeker.”

“Yes, yes,” she scoffs. “I heard you chanting as much before the mirror every day on that awful boat. I am simply glad it proved to be true.”

Shame lodges in my throat; I cannot respond. I wonder if it is true at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct follow up will be posted in a day or two, including: some non-dialogue (what??) + some tender Evelyn&Cullen moments.
> 
> If you're getting tired of Cullen's perspective (and his tendency towards short. choppy. factual. thoughts.) let me know and I can switch it up a bit. 
> 
> As always, thank you SO much for reading!


	6. Of Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the sad lack of Evelyn&Cullen in this one; I will make up for it, I promise!
> 
> Also did I say two parts? I meant three. Three parts.
> 
> Cullen POV for a while longer.

I raise my brow at Rylen.

“I’m just not certain that humouring his inane accusations is a good use of my time, Captain.”

“A single sparring match, Ser, just to first blood. Maybe you just need to shut him up.”

“Maker’s breath, how loud could he be? The recruits have hardly become unruly from his taunts.”

Rylen pauses and bites his cheek. “It’s a bit worse than you think, Commander. The gossip ‘round the barracks… the soldiers are worried he’s right.”

I scowl at the former Knight-Captain. I brought him along exactly for this very reason: always approachable with his peers, practical and observant. The added bonus of not having his head stuck up his – “I wouldn’t be suggesting it, Commander Cullen, if I didn’t think it necessary,” he insists.

“Very well. I’ll accept his empty taunts and see if he truly thinks he can best me in combat.”

“Er… Ser, it’s not your martial combat he’s been questioning. He knows you could knock him on his ass.” Rylen itches his ear, grimacing. “He’s makin’ the recruits think you can’t train them to fight ‘gainst a mage.”

Andraste give me strength, I can feel the headache forming.

“Have the soldiers somehow forgotten I was a _Templar,_ Captain?”

“’Was’, Ser. It’s the ‘was’ he’s makin’ use of.”

“Very well – how is a sparring match your solution, then?”

“Spar with a mage, Ser. That Lady Vivienne who just arrived – all prissy one, looks like she’s never seen mud?”

“Spare me the descriptors, Captain, we’re acquainted.”

“Aye, ser. She’s well-known to the former Templars here. And to Ser Warrick, the problem loudmouth. Hand her a sound defeat and the recruits will name their firstborns after you.”

I busy my hands peering at a report on supply lines. “I’m still not certain this is wise…”

“Commander, Ser? It’s just one mage, even if it’s a fancy one. You’re – you _were_ a Templar. Maker knows I haven’t forgotten a thing they drilled into me; doubt you have. One Templar against one mage is hardly fair, but it’ll end quick and shut him up. Just… just consider it, Ser. The troops could use it.”

“Thank you, Captain Rylen. Dismissed.”

He salutes and exits.

_Just one mage._

The trouble is, Ser Warrick is right. One mage, any mage, could soundly defeat me, weak as I am.

And yet, Rylen is right, as well. This is what the Commander must do. I sigh. The mantle itches.

***

Lady Vivienne graciously agrees to the ridiculous demonstration.

“It will be _my pleasure_ , darling _,_ both to highlight the _immeasurably_ useful nature of our templar allies in these _trying_ times, and to elucidate the formidable powers we mages have been handed _careful_ _responsibility_ for.”

I grit my teeth as I thank her. Another time, another city, and I’d have been delighted at her words. I’d have thanked the Maker for such a reasonable mage. Now, though, her words bring me a sense of hollow guilt.

The match is set for the ninth hour, a time Haven is otherwise occupied – to limit spectators – and soldiers are transitioning between regimens – to maximize gossip.

The flap of my tent opens, and a hesitant voice rings in the small space: “Commander?”

To my surprise, Evelyn enters with a swish of her skirts.

“Herald,” I respond stiffly. The looming match is a distraction. “How may I be of service?”

“I intercepted Adan’s delivery, Ser. Well, ‘intercepted’ is a mild untruth; I mentioned being amenable to the walk to the training grounds and he all but thrust this sacred duty into my arms.” Her small smile would usually elicit more reaction from me, I know.

“Thank you, Herald. Feel free to place it on the table beside you.”

I know what she’s holding, can hear it in my very veins: lyrium. A fresh philter, an irreplicable taste of power. 

I look back down at the papers before me. My stomach fills equally with dread and with hunger to _take it take it take it…_

“Cullen?” I jump in my seat.

“Sorry,” she soothes, “I didn’t mean to startle you. But I just intended to mention… you needn’t take it. The extra dose, I mean.” Her hands are fidgeting.

I take a deep breath. Exhale it slowly. “Lady Vivienne is a powerful mage.”

She chuckles at that: “Oh yes, I am well aware. As is every person within three miles of her each time she casts a spell. So ostentatious. And _Maker_ , whatever nostalgia I’d had for my childhood in the Circle was abruptly dismantled when she proceeded to lecture me – _me –_ on the dangers of working with unknown, unsanctioned magics.”

“Does she even know –“

“– that I regularly employ a plethora of such spells? No. And should she ever uncover my secret, I will fall upon my sword before she can open her mouth to give me her ‘ _seasoned expertise, darling’…_ ”

“You don’t have a sword to fall on,” I point out.

She pouts. “Good point. May I borrow yours, Commander? I don’t mind if it happens to be a bit bloody after this morning’s match.”

I cringe a little. “I wish I could share your conviction of my victory, Evelyn.”

Evelyn remains silent for a moment. She approaches my desk gracefully. Then a gentle hand lifts my chin and with it, my gaze from the desk before me to her face. Her noble, stern, proud face.

“Cullen. Don’t be a fool. She’s a mage, like any other. With the weaknesses of any other mage.”

With that, she nods and makes to exit.

I sigh, eyes finally landing on the box that contains my success and my failure, all in one.

“To make myself completely clear, Commander,” Evelyn chimes lightly from the tent flap, “I wasn’t referring to a susceptibility to Holy Smites.”

I scrape a hand through my hair. What does she – _oh_. Slowly, I grin.

Maker bless the Herald of Andraste.

***

The match begins as expected.

Vivienne, with magic as cold as her wit, summons an entire frost storm around the pitch, encasing everything in an uncomfortable chill. My muscles object to movement, but it’s no worse than the chills that come with withdrawals.

The chills that will continue to plague me, as the lyrium draught sits ignored in my tent.

Vivienne grandstands some more, surrounding herself in armour of ice, shooting some bolts of ice my way: they are overly large, and thus clumsy as missiles. Easily deflected. Showy.

I let her create her spectacle. Eventually, she seems content to make an honest effort of it, expecting the inevitable _Smite_ or _Silence_ that highlights my incurable advantage. In her mind, this was never a fair fight to begin with.

Instead, I press forward with careful blows of my blade, forcing her to block my assaults with walls of ice and hasty barriers.

I advance aggressively, invading her space. Her strength is clearly not in melee combat; within minutes, she accidentally opens her flank and I knock her to the ground with my shield. The maneuver is unceremonious.

Before she can right herself on the frosty dirt, I grab one wrist, then the other. I hold my sword to both hands at once. I twist so that the crowd can see the intent of the position.

“Yield,” I challenge.

There is true fear in her eyes; a mage of no meager power, brought low by hubris and the strength of an ordinary soldier. She clearly never considered this possibility.

She yields, and the shock surrounding the pitch slowly tumbles quickly into cheering.

***

Captain Rylen regards me with some mixture of awe and disgust.

“Commander, when I said they’d name their firstborns after you, you know, that was a spot of exaggeration. Not a goal.”

“Thank you for the clever suggestion, Captain. I trust the recruits’ minds will be set at ease regarding the value of their training, now.”

“Andraste’s sake, Ser. I thought you’d set them at ease that the Templars in the ranks could help with hostile mages. You know, a good show of the power of a simple _Silence_ , shake hands, be done. But this…” he bites his cheek. “Now every no-name farm boy who signed up last week will believe they can train to take down an apostate or rage demon.”

“Can’t they?” I question.

He huffs. “I suppose they can. Damn. Good show, Ser.”

***

I make my way through the spectators, a “well done, Commander!” interspersed here, a “did you see that? Didn’t even _Smite_ her!” muttered there. I try not to smile; Vivienne is an important ally, and though she had agreed with the necessity of her defeat, it would not do to gloat.

The return to my tent is slow through the crowds.

For a single instant, Evelyn walks beside me. I know it’s her from the intricate auburn braid and the smell of elfroot and the gentle magic working warmth back into my magically-chilled bones.

I can just barely make out her whisper:

“There were _dirt_ _stains_ on her _royal sea silk_ dress. I have never been _so_ _proud,_ Rutherford.”

Quick as the wind, she disappears back into the crowd.

I try not to smile.

I fail horribly.

***

The final congratulator catches me by surprise. Former Knight-Recruit Lysette appears outside my tent at dusk. I’m returning from a quiet dinner, my elusive appetite having made an appearance at last.

She looks exhausted, dark bruising mottled beneath her blue eyes. 

“Commander,” she intones with a knowing smile. She does not salute, just leans limply against a tent post. I raise a brow.

“Recruit?”

“May I speak plainly, Ser?”

I consider her for a moment. Her face contorts as though she’s trying not to wince.

“Certainly,” I gesture to my tent, and we both enter.

“What is your concern, recruit?”

“No concern, only congratulations. I just can’t decide what to congratulate you on, though. Help me figure it out?”

I cross my arms and regard her closely as she continues.

“Either you’re much smarter than the Chantry’s ever allowed a Templar to be, or…” her grin widens, “or you’ve been receiving combat lessons from the illustrious Lady Evelyn Trevelyan.”

_Of course._ I wouldn’t be the first warrior Evelyn shared her insights with – not when those insights could mean life or death as she and Lysette and the rest of their entourage crossed the war-stricken Marches.

I allow myself a chuckle.

“Though I’d love for it to be former, Lysette, it’s obviously the latter.”

“In that case, congratulations on not being daft enough to write her off.”

“Thank you for giving me exactly as much credit as I’m due; it’s refreshing.”

She laughs out loud, a wicked chortle.

“I can see why she likes you, Commander. Tell me, since the match this morning was so clearly unchallenging, would you care to spar?”

“Spar? Now?”

“Yes. I find it helps me sleep,” she shrugs with a clenched jaw.

I think of my matches with Cassandra, fending off nightmares with exhaustion alone, desperate to drain my mind into a dreamless slumber.

“Nothing quite like it,” I agree quietly.

“The Bear-Tackler won’t mind me stealing her partner?”

“Who – Cassandra?” I cough. “I mean, Seeker Pentaghast – no, she is content to demolish countless training dummies.”

“Good, because if you’d said no, I’d have asked her next. And she scares me shitless.”

I snort. “Let me get my shield and we’ll see if you can pulverize me the way she does.”

She salutes. “Thank you, Ser.”

***

We spar every twilight for the next week. Where Lysette lacks my experience or skills, she meets me equally in sheer determination. I begin to form a begrudging respect, if only for the way she lifts her bruised body up from the ground again and again and _again._

One night, Cassandra comes to watch. Her brow furrows in concern or disdain at first, but eventually smooths as we fight in the dissipating light. Our blows are savage, our blocks desperate. By the time darkness falls, Cassandra has seen me fall and rise so many times that she wears a rare expression of _pride._ Lysette gives her a theatrical bow and we both laugh out loud. Maker, it feels good.

I find I enjoy the exhaustion; more than once, I fall asleep face-first in my reports. A blissful, nightmare-free state of unconsciousness.

Tonight, however, Lysette is more vicious than ever. Her blows are violent and ill-timed. I manage to repel her, but I can see her sloppy form, her unbalanced steps.

“What’s wrong.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Commander, if you need a break, you needn’t pretend it’s for my benefit –”

“–Lysette. Either you’re drunk or you’re unwell. Regardless, you’re in no state to train. Lower your damn blade before you hurt yourself.”

“The only thing _wrong_ with me, Commander, is that apparently I need to learn to _share_ better.”

I wait for an explanation. She slumps down to the ground.

“These sparring matches have been helping,” she sighs, “but the relief is so damned short-lived. And we can’t keep this up forever – they’re already starting to talk in the barracks. Not to mention it’s not very nice to steal your friend’s toys.”

“None of that clarifies anything, recruit.”

She waves a limp hand in my direction, then rubs her eyes.

“Never you mind, Commander. I’m just unwell, as you said. Go to the damn docks so at least my guilty conscience can feel better.”

“The docks?”

“Evelyn won’t say it, but she’s rather put out that I’ve stolen her company.”

“Ah.” To my embarrassment, my chest warms slightly.

“Well? Get going, Commander. And make sure she does the heat thing on your back – Maferath’s bones, I can see the knots from _here._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: more dockside conversation. Thanks for reading!
> 
> A question: is this still considered a series of one-shots at this point? Or is it just loosely connected chapters?  
> I want to learn to tag correctly so suggestions are very much welcome!


	7. Of Familiarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say two parts? I meant three. This directly follows the former. And it’s loooonnngg so buckle up. 
> 
> Also I may have to add 'angst' to the tags due to all the lyrium withdrawal elements in this one; be forewarned.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me!

**Cullen POV**

It has been almost two weeks since I last approached Evelyn’s little spot. My footsteps are awkward, hesitant.

“Evelyn?” I am tentative to disturb her silence.

She holds up a single, tiny finger, indicating to wait. With a shuddering exhale, she releases her spell, the power of it rolling off her in waves that make my jaw clench.

“There!” she proclaims in delight. “By morning, we’ll be able to fish.”

She turns her smile toward me, warm as the lingering sunlight, and pats the dock beside her.

I don’t hesitate. It feels like taking my childhood spot at the dinner table; to the left of my mother, next to baby Rosalie. It feels right.

“Listen, Evelyn. I should have… That is, it was unworthy of me…” I’d rehearsed a short speech on my brisk walk over. Seeing her turn to me, though, with a smile so bright – the speech is quickly thrown in the lake. “I spoke to Cass…”

“Oh, yes,” she says with a wicked glint in her eyes. “And she spoke to me. Ever so contritely. Your doing, perhaps?”

“Oh. Well.” I run my hand along a few-days-old beard, stiff and scraggly. “The contrition is all her own; I merely directed her to you to disrupt the inevitable spiral towards self-flagellation.”

Evelyn laughs. “How fortunate that you knew exactly where to find me, Ser.”

Guilt grips me, a familiar fist around my spine. “Forgive me, Evelyn,” my voice is quiet. “I did not mean to spoil this for you.”

“You did not.”

“No more than usual, you mean.”

“Cullen,” her voice is stern.

My gaze remains on my hands.

“Cullen,” she repeats, pointing a finger at me. Slowly, the finger advances towards my face. I shoot her a confused glance, but the finger continues toward my cheek with comical sluggishness. Eventually her little gloved finger hits my cheek, impressing just slightly.

I raise an eyebrow at her. My cheek twitches. This is ridiculous.

“I’ve never seen it this long,” she remarks, finger still pressed to my cheek, eyes critical. Scowling politely at my shabby beard.

“Oh, usually I shave it.”

“Why?”

“Soldier’s habit, I suppose. It is expected to be clean shaven as a recruit.”

“No, I meant, why grow a beard now? An attempt to seem more Commanderly? If so, Vivienne has suggestions for repurposing that mantle of yours.”

“Oh,” I wince sheepishly. Lying is unpalatable, but I can’t very well tell her how the physical exhaustion, the sweet relief that sparring gives, comes at the cost of worsening tremors.

She obviously sees my discomfort, dropping her hand and turning away. 

“I like it,” she says quietly, staring out to the lake. The sun setting prettily over the mountains, the last rays of light quickly fading. It’s a violet display that almost makes it possible to ignore the bright green gash of the Breach. Evelyn often admires it during these dockside evenings.

“It’s a pleasant view. To think this place was all but forgotten before the Blight…”

She chuckles and leans a shoulder lightly on mine for a moment, the gentlest of nudges. “I meant the beard, Rutherford, but yes, the sunset’s lovely as well. I never had so clear a view over the walls of Ostwick, even from the Circle tower.”

“I used to see it set across the Calenhad as a boy.”

She hums happily. “Must have been splendid.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I smirked. “I was boy looking for the most sword-like stick with which to chase my brother, not admiring the sunsets.”

“Of course!” She laughs, “You were thirteen when you left, right?”

I’m surprised she remembers. “Yes, though I begged the Templars at our Chantry to train me for years prior.”

Her eyes crinkle with mirth.

“How old were you when your magic manifested?” I return her gaze.

Evelyn’s smile turns a little sad, but she soon grins wider.

“I believe that response requires either a Game of Guesses or a Game of Trades, Ser.”

I smile, pulling my right knee up to lean my arms and chin upon. I smirk down at her as if to say _challenge accepted._

“What shall it be, Rutherford?”

“Have you any preference, my lady?”

Evelyn taps her lips lightly. Warmth begins to seep into my shoulders, easing the aches of a week’s arduous training. I swallow and nod in thanks.

“Guesses,” she declares.

“In that case, I believe you were older, at least fifteen, when you first went to the Circle.”

“I applaud your honour, Cullen; I was sure Leliana’s report would have mentioned this.”

“Does that mean I’m incorrect?”

“Honourably incorrect,” she laughs. The heat on my back is soothing. Her laughter is warm. The shame with which I approached the dock lies forgotten in the shadows behind us.

“I’ll admit,” I add, glancing away, “I’ve been sorely tempted to revisit that report. But I dare not.”

“Good; we ought to have some level ground, now that you know my vital weaknesses.” She wiggles her slim, gloved fingers toward me. “Out of curiosity, what makes you guess older?”

“Were there extensive stables at the Ostwick Circle?”

Her forehead furrows. “No…”

“Then you must have met many dashing stable hands after the Circles fell…”

She laughs and thwacks my shoulder with her hand.

“Commander, you cad. Did they not have home visits at Kinloch?”

“Home visits?” I try to remember; the last time I was in a functional, _normal_ Circle was nearly a decade ago. “I suppose so, yes – though supervised. It was only an option for Harrowed enchanters, powerful mages with proven trustworthiness.”

“And likely only those with illustrious families to cover travel and other expenses,” she nods. “Nobility has its benefits, even after the title’s stripped.”

“So … home visits?” I smirk and hope she can see my teasing glint in the dying light.

“Home visits,” she states primly, “were tedious formal affairs filled with lessons, balls, and the endless gossip of fat aristocrats… I much preferred the stables.”

“To inspect the fabled Trevelyan stock, of course.”

“Of course,” she giggles. “That should be your secret, then, Cullen. Since you seem set on remembering mine.”

I quirk an eyebrow, asking for elaboration.

“Was your first lover also a stable boy?”

I bark a laugh. “Hardly. Fellow Templar, of course.”

“Never a mage, Rutherford?”

I cough. Blush. Try not to think of Solona. “Mages were… close relations were frowned upon greatly, due to the nature of the Order’s…” I pause. “Why am I explaining this to _you_? Don’t you already know that answer?”

She claps a delicate hand across her mouth to half-smother a snicker.

“But I do so enjoy watching you fluster yourself, Cullen. And I’m unsurprised to hear that you were fastidious in your discipline then, as well.”

“Discipline is –”

“Immensely important.” Evelyn interrupts, raising a hand. “You think we mages don’t know the value of self-control, Commander?” Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp.

“Forgive me, Evelyn. You need no lectures from me –”

“Wrong again, Cullen.” She shakes her head, a few errant strands of hair falling from the braids.

“There are many topics on which I could use your lectures,” she continues: “the purpose of those infernal trebuchets, for example, or how to dismount a horse with a staff on your back and _not_ get it caught in the stirrups or saddlebags.”

I snort.

“Don’t you dare chuckle, Rutherford. It reflects poorly on the Inquisition when the Herald of Andraste falls on her face.”

“I thought you rather good at landing on your feet,” I observe.

“Metaphorically, perhaps,” she giggles, leaning to knock her shoulder lightly with mine again.

I smirk and lean back, nudging her ever so slightly. Her frame is so slight, I fear any more force and she’d choke on my furs or fall off the dock.

We turn back to the lake. The last rays of sun sink below the horizon. I swallow. Usually we would already have ventured back to Haven, splitting at the training grounds. Perhaps I should escort her back to her cabin. Even Haven could hold dangers at nighttime; one never knows, and even a seasoned mage can be overpowered…

“I suppose it’s my turn?” she questions, so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

“Your turn?”

“In the Game of Guesses?”

I nod. Then, realizing she can’t see me, I add, “If you believe yourself up to the challenge, Herald.”

My right shoulder receives the slightest shove in response.

“I would venture a guess that you are the second oldest child.”

I chuckle. “Correct. And you are the youngest?”

“Correct.”

“It figures; so eager to turn everything into a game.”

“Do you usually view budding friendships as a solemn endeavour, Cullen? If so, it’s a wonder you’ve any friends at all.”

“How you wound my pride, my lady,” I laugh.

“Then again, perhaps you’ve only taken cues from our Lady Seeker. She seems quite severe in her friendship, as well.”

“Cassandra’s severe in everything.”

Evelyn grins, though it is becoming hard to make out her expression in the darkness. She notices me squinting toward her and immediately throws a little mage light into the air.

The soft golden light feels like sitting before a hearth. Evelyn’s hair seems redder, her cheeks more flushed.

“She thinks the world of you, you know.”

My confused expression makes her giggle again.

“Cassandra,” she clarifies: “she seems to find our occasional evening chats both inspiring and amusing. She’s rather pleased with your – well, _our_ ability to see beyond the meager scope of Templar and Mage.”

I rub my beard again, thinking guiltily to how little Evelyn knows of me. How trusting she is.

“Seeker Pentaghast knows me too well to hold such high regard,” I scoff. “Perhaps she is simply ensuring the Herald and Commander don’t murder each other on an abandoned pier.”

Evelyn’s shoulder knocks against mine once more, mage light floating with her movement.

“You believe Cassandra to be capable of being so indirect?”

I laugh out loud. “Perhaps not.”

She casts a knowing glance my way, seemingly content to change the topic.

“My turn?”

“I believe so, my lady – Evelyn.”

Evelyn pulls her knees up on the pier, turning toward me. Golden mage light flickers. She squints her eyes. She smirks, a wry observation or accusation on her lips and I find myself leaning forward to hear it.

Suddenly, Evelyn’s face drops and she pulls away.

 _Shit._ I scramble to discern what I’ve done wrong – perhaps my pose was too familiar? Was she ruminating on the conversation about Templars and pasts? Was she –

“Seriously, Evie? _Wards_?” A third voice bellows. “Why in the name of Andraste’s scorched tits do you have wards up?”

***

Lysette’s voice, now familiar in its brashness, rams through the quiet moment. 

“There are wolves in the woods, Lys,” Evelyn sighs and stands. Her voice is serene again. I join her, peering at the soldier through the darkness.

“And since when do _you_ fear fucking _wolves_?” Lysette stomps onto to the pier, stumbling over her feet.

Evelyn tosses a few more lights in the air in an organized circle, illuminating all our faces.

Maker’s breath, but Lysette looks haggard. Half-dead, even. Far worse than a few hours prior.

“Merely precautions, Lysette; someone has to keep our dear Commander safe.”

“Oh. Yes. Evenin’ Ser.” She tries to salute, but the gesture is sloppy. “Could I borrow her for a bit, Ser?”

I nod in acknowledgement and turn back to Haven. I’ll send a patrol by shortly to ensure they’ve returned safely. As I turn away, though, Evelyn’s hand catches my arm.

“It might be better if you stayed, Commander.” Her face is impassive. An uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. I nod again, slowly, and am rewarded with a tight smile.

“How are you faring, Lys?” Evelyn approaches Lysette timidly while I stand in wait. I’m fidgeting with my mantle again, I realize. I clasp my hands imperiously behind my back instead, exactly as she taught me.

“I’m fucking dying, Ev, you know I am. I can’t keep doing this.” Her voice is a desperate rasp.

“Yes, you can.”

“It’s a hairsbreadth from suicide and you know it –”

“Have you had some tea for the headache?”

“Didn’t help,” Lysette scoffs.

“Exercise? Sparring?”

“I can barely hold up a sword. Maferath’s ass, Evelyn. Just give me the damn glass.”

“Did you try the Chantry?”

“What, and sing to the Maker? _Fuck_ the Maker. He’s the reason I’m like this.”

“Do you want to do some magical transference therapy?”

“Evie, it’s not going to help.”

“Try?” Evelyn’s voice is plaintive. “At least try it?”

Lysette falls to the old wooden planks in a plop. She’s half-discarded her armour; thankfully, or worrisomely, she’s unarmed.

Evelyn sits gently before her, legs folded beneath her skirts.

With a deep breath she casts what looks like a barrier – I don’t recognize the magic, and that old familiar fear clenches my heart. But the barrier, soft and white, slowly envelops Lysette’s slumped form.

Evelyn moves her hands methodically and carefully controls the magic to settle on the templar like a second skin. It moves like mist, itches at my lyrium-twisted veins.

After a moment, Lysette hisses and swipes a hand toward Evelyn. “It’s not working. There’s no harmony, it’s just… Fuck, Evie, I can’t do this, I can’t, I can’t, I ca –”

Evelyn hushes her and cradles the larger woman in her arms.

“It’ll be alright, Lys, it _will._ ” I admire the certainty in her voice, but these symptoms are quickly becoming all too familiar. Lysette faces my fate: insanity or death.

I clear my throat: “Knight-recruit, the Inquisition has secure supply lines for…” Evelyn casts me a glare so _vicious_ that the words dry up on my tongue.

“Unnecessary, Commander. We will overcome this. We _will_ , Lysette, I promised you, didn’t I? What do they say about Trevelyans?”

Lysette laughs hollowly. “They keep horses, oaths, and secrets.”

Evelyn wipes sweat from her brow.

“There’s one more thing we can try, Lys, but it’s…”

“Maker’s rancid breath, Evelyn, if you say _experimental…_ ”

“It’s _barely_ experimental; just a stretch of a different spell, really.”

“We had a deal. What was that about keeping oaths? No lyrium, no –”

“No experiments, I know, but trust me in this. I’ve researched it well.”

Lysette scoffs. “You said that about the blood magic, too, Evie.”

“And I was fourteen; shall we all have our childhood whims held against us?”

A shudder overtakes Lysette. She huffs. “Fine, fine, what new fucking trick do you have up your sleeves this time?”

“Alright. I will cast a flame. Try to _Silence_ it; but cast it measuredly, as you would a _Smite._ As little as you can manage.”

“Evie, do you know what _Silencing_ without lyrium feels like?”

Evelyn reaches into her belt-pouch and produces a pale lavender vial.

“Sleeping draught,” she holds the vial to me. “After the _Silence_ , it’s yours to take, Lysette. The Commander will administer it and ensure you reach your tent safely.”

She says the words as fact, but her wide eyes implore me for help. I nod, throat too thick to speak. I know how it feels to reach for lyrium within you that no longer exists. Most would rather take the insanity.

The Herald sits straight, summoning a bright flame above her bowed palms.

Lysette _Silences_ ; it is too powerful, and all the lights extinguish.

In the pitch dark, I can hear a woman gasping in pain. It could be either of them. I curse myself for having no torch. Useless _fool_ that I am.

Soon enough, the mage lights float back into the cold air.

“Try again,” Evelyn whispers.

On the fourth try, the flame only diminishes in her hand. It illuminates her tentative smile.

I can feel the push and pull of the Fade; as Evelyn maintains the fire between them, Lysette purges it. Eventually, the soldier collapses with a hand to her head, swearing loudly.

“Fuck, Ev. I hate that your stupid experiments always work.”

“Not always. Remember the enchanted snowmen when I was eleven?”

Lysette exhales sharply, almost a laugh, and Evelyn looks to me.

“See her home for me, Cullen? I need a moment to catch my breath, but I’d wager she wants a dreamless sleep at once. She might not make it the whole way… unassisted.”

Maker knows it’s not the first time I’ve carried a solider to his tent. As Lysette feverishly downs the potion, I lift her under a shoulder and half-drag her to Haven. I look back only once; Evelyn’s Fade-green eyes are dull, wet with tears.

I’ll have to send that patrol after all.

I usher Lysette to the entrance of her tent and she immediately turns to me, slurring: “Commander – Ser – this is going to – Maker, it might fuck her up a bit. I’ll … I’ll fix it in the morning. Just find her. Ser.”

She leans into my chest, pushing something cold and cylindrical against the skin of my neck. I take it in my hand, but she falls into her tent gracelessly before I can question her.

I don’t need to open my fist to know what I’m holding: according to Leliana, Evelyn’s phylactery was destroyed when Ostwick fell. No trace of it, no chance for subsequent looters to have stolen it.

Her phylactery leads me right to her, a few steps into the woods, curled up against a tree.

***

**Evelyn POV**

“Evelyn?” his voice is soft, always so soft with me, with ‘Evelyn’, when so gruff with soldiers and so cordial with the Herald. I like the soft.

“Evelyn,” he repeats, a warm hand on my shoulder. “You must wake up, Evelyn. It’s too cold to huddle out in the woods, my lady.”

I snicker, still on the edge of sleep.

“Not a lady, Cullen,” my mouth is dry and speaking is tedious effort. “I’m a mage. Isn’t that all we ever are?”

“Strange,” he hums, “I was certain I’d heard someone calling you the Herald of Andraste. She who will save us all from the Breach. Avid avoider of cliff-climbing. Helper of Druffalo. Hunter of rams. Friend to the Tackler of Bears. But I _must_ be mistaken then, my lady…”

I laugh again, and finally open my eyes. He’s kneeling before me in the dim moonlight. I try to cast a mage light, but it flickers out. I pout.

Cullen looks at me, concerned.

“Have you never seen magical exhaustion before?” I question, “This is what over-expending mana looks like, Commander. Or Knight-Captain, correct? Will you ever be more than a Templar?”

I can tell the question has stung him. He pulls back. _Poorly done._ _A lady chooses her words carefully, Evelyn._

“My pardon, that’s not what I intended. I meant that Lysette is so _much –_ she’s kind, she’s funny, she’s loyal beyond words. Strong, obviously. Good; believes in protecting the powerless. But for all she is, she will always be a _Templar._ Always chained to that life. Always ruled by it, no matter her hopes…”

I swallow heavily. “Will I ever be more than a mage? More than a trap waiting to be sprung?”

 _“Yes._ ” His answer is so fervent that I blink a few times, staring into the intensity of his gaze.

“It’s just… the fish…” I mumble. _Eloquent._

“The fish?”

“I melted the lake enough to allow for ice-fishing. The surface is sturdy. The fish are awake below.”

Cullen’s brow furrows; _a Lady does not roll her eyes,_ so I settle for a heavy sigh.

“Cullen, do you really think the soldiers will catch magically-awoken fish? Or that the cooks will serve them? _Fade-touched, Maker-cursed, unnatural._ It taints everything I do, doesn’t it? Lysette will never really be free of lyrium, but me? I _am_ the lyrium, Cullen. I _am_ the taint.”

“ _No._ ” Again, his voice is so fervent. So assured.

I shiver in the packed snow. My eyelids are heavy, slipping shut.

“Let me handle the fish, Evelyn.” His voice is so gentle again. As gentle as his hands when he pulls me up, wrapping his massive cloak around me. The world spins.

“Maker’s breath, it’s the least I can do,” he mutters.

At dawn’s first light, I wake in my cabin, parched and exhausted. Outside, Haven is abuzz.

One of the Chantry sisters has had a vision, apparently. A gift unto the Inquisition, the Maker’s delight made corporeal: Haven’s waters will melt like spring, a new awakening of faith.

In other words, _there will be fish for dinner!_

The warmth that fills my chest has nothing to do with the sunlight peering through the window, or even the thick knitted blanket carefully placed over me in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really hard to finish. Feedback appreciated! 
> 
> Back to regularly scheduled fluff&jokes feat. momentary-angst in our next chapter, I promise. 
> 
> PS. Count em up: so many casual affectionate touches! (my personal fave thing)


	8. Returning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little connector piece, a little aftermath.

**Cullen POV**

Lysette reports to my tent after the midday drills.

“I am recovered, Commander,” she states plainly.

I raise an eyebrow at her. My own withdrawals are less potent today, my face less weary than hers.

“What can I do for you, recruit?”

Lysette shuffles uncomfortably.

“I… I won’t make a commotion, Commander. But I won’t turn back on my promises either. If I am permitted to remain with the Inquisition in another capacity…”

_Maker’s breath_. I realize, suddenly, that she’s expecting me to order her to take lyrium. Or to charge her with desertion. As the Order would have done.

“Do you believe your martial abilities to be compromised, Lysette?”

“Erm, no, Ser. Not entirely, Ser. I am weaker, but –”

“Are you a worse soldier than our greenest recruit?”

Lysette scoffs. “All due respect, Ser, but I could pummel those farm boys by the dozens, even at my worst.”

I chuckle.

“Glad to see your spirit is unharmed. Your skills remain useful.” I divert my eyes to a report, opening the sealed compartment beneath my desk. “You will continue to assist Captain Rylen in training our forces. Should your condition prove untenable, you may report to me for leave. I can always find something else for a spare soldier to do...”

She seems taken aback.

“Thank you, Ser.”

“This isn’t the Templar Order, recruit.”

“That is… quickly becoming very clear, Commander.” The tension is slowly leaving her stance, and she offers me a marvelling smile.

“For what it’s worth, thank you,” I add.

She shakes her head, perplexed. “What for, Commander?”

“It has come to my attention that the only thing keeping Evelyn – that is, the Herald – from performing potentially dangerous magical experiments is this arrangement of yours; and, by extension, your perseverance in this matter.”

I fiddle with Evelyn’s phylactery, safely now on my lap. That Lysette had it speaks volumes to the trust they share. That she lent it to me, even addled from withdrawals as she was…

“You’ve done the Inquisition a favour, by my estimation,” I smirk towards her.

Lysette barks a throaty laugh, her posture relaxed into its usual elegant slump.

“You don’t know how right you are, Commander. Maker forbid she invent another tickling spell. Or massaging spell. Or self-rebuilding snow forts.”

“Andraste preserve us from such a fate,” I grin. “Is there anything else?”

“No, Ser.” I frown for a moment, still fiddling with the small vial of blood and power. I should keep it, or at least speak with Leliana about it.

“Very well, soldier. May the Maker guide your path.”

“Thank you, Ser.”

She turns on her heel; I return to the requisition before me with the phylactery warm in my palm. Perhaps I’ll speak to Cass, first, before informing the Nightingale.

“Commander?” I hear Lysette ask from the tent’s flap. “Did you… did you return for Evelyn last night?”

I look up; her face is anguish and guilt and stern resilience.

“As ordered, recruit,” I nod. “I escorted her to her cabin. She seemed well; just fatigued. She should be finishing with the Ambassador if you wish to seek her out.”

She grins broadly. “Thank you, Ser. She told me you were one of the good ones.” She practically bounces out of the tent.

I’m left wondering if she meant good templar, good man, or something else altogether. With Evelyn’s phylactery burning a hole in my palm, I feel like _none_ of those things.

I sigh; if I get up right now, I can catch up to her and return what she entrusted to me.

Leliana will murder me for this, if she finds out.

_When_ she finds out.

***

**Evelyn POV**

Tea with Josephine is always a mix of genuine laughter and uncomfortable flashbacks to childhood etiquette lessons. She is bright and clever and indulges my every quip. But enough political _insight_ and I find myself wanting to freeze Duke de Chamboreaux’s vineyards until he promises to play nice and stop campaigning for my decapitation.

I say goodbye with a kiss on the cheek and an arrangement to see her tomorrow for more _scintillating_ conversation.

A thick smoky haze of fish fry rises from the tavern as I exit the Chantry. I bite my cheek lightly, because _a Lady does not boast,_ but the eager smiles of Haven’s faces makes me irrationally proud.

Lysette’s smile, when she bounds in my direction, is equally as eager.

“Reporting for duty, Herald,” she chimes with a mock salute.

“How are you feeling, Lys?” My hand seeks her cheek, quickly running the right heat through her muscles to soothe lingering aches.

“Better.” It’s true: eyes bright, less sunken, no pallor or tremors. Her smile seems almost genuine.

“Good,” I grin.

“Good, yes.” Lysette’s smile falls. “He is, you know.”

I quirk my head, an old bad habit from childhood.

“He _is_ good, like you said,” she elaborates with rare solemnity. “Evelyn, he… I…”

She holds out her hand, fist clenched around something.

I recognize the nondescript leather cord that peeks out, with a gasp and an old, paranoid reaction to cast an invisible barrier over us both.

“Forgive me, Evie, please; I was delirious and stupid and it could have cost you _everything_. But he… he gave it back.”

“Shit,” I mutter. _A Lady does not swear._ “Shit, shit shit.”

“Yeah. Shit. Come on,” Lysette sighs, tucking the dark vial away again. “Let’s get you some fish and figure out how to sneak you out of here. Oh, and wine for an apology, since I don’t have any fucking flowers that can make up for this.”

I stare for a moment at my left hand, my Marked hand, the hand that touched my friend’s cheek just a moment ago.

“No, Lysette.” I tear my eyes to the gates of Haven down below; the slow red of sunset has begun to blot out the sky’s green sickness.

“I’ll not run again,” I whisper.

**Cullen POV**

Evelyn’s voice rings clear in my small, cramped tent:

“As I’m sure you know, flowers are the preferred method of apology in Orlesian etiquette.”

“Are they, now? I would know no such thing,” I drawl with a smirk. My eyes never rise from the recruitment report before me, but I can hear the sweep of her skirts as she approaches.

“Maker forgive me: I cannot remember my brave Ser’s flower of preference. Not that anything grows in this frozen wasteland. Then again, you _hail_ from this frozen wasteland, so perhaps it’s some charming bloom only found here? Or perhaps…”

When it’s clear she won’t relent until I humour her, I toss the parchment on a pile of its abandoned peers.

“Have you considered, my lady, that learning the Chevalier’s Code of Conduct did not, in fact, transform me into one?”

“Embrium?”

I snort.

“Dawn Lotus?”

“Evelyn.”

“No, far too delicate. Perhaps elderflower?”

“Evelyn, why are you –”

“Too whimsical,” she huffs, beginning to pace. “bluebells, perhaps?”

“Lady Trevelyan.”

She turns swiftly and regards me with a face so unexpectedly vulnerable, so doubtful.

“Forgive me, Cullen. I shouldn’t jest. I just don’t really… I’m uncertain how to… how do I apologize and thank you and address this mess all at once and … Maker blast it, _you’re_ supposed to be the one that stumbles over words!”

I can’t help but chuckle at that. “I’ve never claimed a monopoly on fumbling.”

“You may not be a chevalier, Cullen, but I _am_ trained as a _Lady._ And _a Lady does not stumble.”_

I sigh and examine the next missive. Trade route patrols.

“Daffodils,” I mutter, “if you’re planning to pry the information from my cold corpse.”

“Daffodils?” She exhales her question, guilty expression turning slowly to tentative delight. “Why daffodils?”

“They’re the first heralds of spring and all that…” I shrug.

“So you enjoy spring best?”

“Or maybe I just like Heralds,” I reply with a smirk.

She breaks into a toothy grin and snorts.

“Are you sure you’re not an aspiring chevalier, Cullen? That was undeniably _saccharine_.”

“As Commander, I must sometimes employ unorthodox strategies for success.”

“Such as baseless flattery?”

I shrug again. “When the Lady de Fer seeks validation of her magical prowess, perhaps.”

“Oh, that’s not very kind, Commander,” she snickers. “I’d not take you for a gossip.”

“Nor for a kind man, I’d hope.” The truth of it gnaws at me. If she knew, truly _knew_ me. How weak, how broken, how _cruel –_

“No, of course not. The cold, heartless soldier. The ruthless Commander. The vicious, unkind man who finds and carries a foolish girl back to her bed and tucks her in.”

I glance up. Her face is proud and stern again, the uncertainty of her earlier apology all but evaporated.

“The callous templar,” she continues, “who not only _permits_ Lysette to continue testing the chains of her lyrium, but _encourages_ her to find peace, freedom. The merciless mage-hunter who watches unsanctioned magic and cares more for how it _helps_ , not for how it makes his jaw clench. The –”

I hold up a hand, blushing, desperate to interrupt her.

“No need for further, erm… descriptions, Evelyn.”

She glares at me. “I find I disagree, Commander. I’ve identified great need for further elucidation on the matter.”

“Well, then,” I sigh, adding another paper to the soon-to-be-neglected pile before me. “Write me a report if you must.”

She laughs. “I’ll admit, Cullen, I have little confidence you’d actually read it, given the fate of every other paper on your desk.”

I glare at the teetering stack. The sun is beginning to set; usually, I’d be finding Evelyn at our – at _the_ dock at this time, but given the successfully-melted lake…

“What about fish?” I blurt.

Before I can correct my blunder, Evelyn’s snorting giggle bounces around the tent.

“Maker’s mercies, Cullen, I know you were sympathetic to my plight, but you _can_ share some of the awkward fumbling, you know. Don’t hoard it all for my sake.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. _Still_ _such a conversationalist, Rutherford._

“Didn’t you once mention something about a lady not teasing?”

“Didn’t you once mention you’d prefer it to my rehearsed diplomacy?”

We hold gazes, both smirking and stone-faced all at once.

Perhaps I am too weak to withstand her bright mischief; I break first under watchful green eyes.

A reattempt: “Would you care to inspect the ice fishing on the lake, my lady? Or perhaps sample the fish fry? Or, uhm… perhaps we could…”

“Commander.” She squints at me, eyes keen. “Cullen,” she corrects, “do you … does this tent ever make you feel claustrophobic?”

“ _Maker,_ yes.” She seems startled at my passionate response. “As the captains and lieutenants prove their mettle and undertake further field duties, I find myself regulated more and more to this Void-damned desk.”

I thump the offending wood for effect. She raises a hand to smother a giggle.

“My, my, Commander; I didn’t imagine you capable of such… discontent.”

“You’ll not hear me grumble –”

“– except I believe I just did,” she remarks with a smirk.

“Very well, _others_ won’t hear me grumble…”

“But your grumble is so soothing, Rutherford. Like a placated bear.”

“If you’re still trying to persuade me to be more easily intimidated by Cass, likening me to a bear isn’t your cleverest angle.”

Her laughter is more boisterous than ever before.

“Maker preserve me, what shall I do now that you’ve seen through my nefarious plots?”

“Give me a reason not to drown in all this ink?”

For a moment, I am nervous. Familiar sweat gathers at the back of my neck.

She does not owe me her time, her company – after yesterday’s turmoil, she may crave a peace I cannot offer, to be with Lysette or with Cassandra or…

“I’ve got just the right place, Rutherford,” she replies without hesitation. “And approximately three dozen questions about daffodils.” Evelyn tilts her head to the tent’s entrance: an invitation.

I stand to join her.

“A Game of Trades, then, Trevelyan?” I gesture for her to lead, _Ladies first._ She moves with a graceful sway of skirts and a coy expression.

Immediately outside the tent, the Herald of Andraste returns. Hands clasped politely, shoulders back, she declares: “I concur, Commander: it seems a perfect evening for such enlightening lessons. May the Maker bless our studies.”

She leads us away from Haven, each step relaxing the noble stiffness of her shoulders.

We reach the edge of the forest, away from – most – prying eyes.

“Crystal Grace,” she says, suddenly, once we are out of earshot; a wry grin blooms across her flushed skin.

My eyebrow quirks.

“Crystal Grace is my flower of preference, should you ever need to apologize like some courtier. This is a Game of Trades, after all; and I believe it is your turn to ask a question, Ser.”

Her mischievous smile warms a cold, nervous emptiness in my chest.

I look at the snow beneath my boots.

There must be some military application for the blue-and-pink graveyard vine, something to justify a requisition order.

I will think on it later; for now, a bevy of heavy and whimsical questions spring to mind. I match her mischievous smile with my own. I know what to ask first.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the beginning of a proper chapter that I'm posting now as a tie-over because there's no time to finish the proper (fluffy AF) chapter; December's so neeeedyy. No updates until January. 
> 
> Merry Christmas & thanks for reading!


	9. A Man Is Made of Secrets Kept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally almost never care for Inky/OC backstories, but it was getting hard to grow Evelyn without including some of hers. It’s just a conduit for fluff in the end, so * shrugs * Enjoy a really really long conversation!

**Evelyn POV**

As we venture further away from Haven – past the small forest, toward the old stone bridge leading to the Breach – Cullen’s step gains a little lightness. He looks healthy today, grinning mischievously in the fresh mountain air. 

“So, Evelyn…”

I keep my face calm, collected, ladylike. But it’s hard to be the Lady Herald out here, with him. A wry grin breaks through.

“Yes, Cullen?”

“Do you miss being a Lady?”

“How should I miss something I’ve never been?”

He makes some noise between a huff and a snort and gestures inelegantly up and down my body.

“I’d sooner believe you’re a dwarf than a commoner. Look at you – you’re practically _floating_ as you walk. Makes me feel like a boor for not escorting you by the elbow or some nonsense.”

“A dwarf?” I tease, “My good Ser, did you just poke fun at a Lady’s height?”

“Aha!” he chortles, “so you admit it. You _are_ a lady.”

“No, Ser, you’ll find you’re mistaken. I was _trained_ as a Lady, but never were any of my tutors nor family fooled; no matter how Ladylike a mage may act, she is still but a mage.”

He snorts, likely biting back some comment about noble idiocy.

“If you’re not a lady, then I’m not a soldier.”

I chuckle. “The last time I was considered a Lady was long before you were considered a soldier, Cullen.”

Cullen’s brow furrows, tallying up the years.

“I’m about five years your senior, if I guess correctly?” he asks.

“Guess?” I question, “Or ‘recall from the spymaster’s report’?”

He shrugs. “Unsavory as it may be, Leliana and her agents serve their purpose in the Inquisition.”

“You find the Nightingale’s methods _unsavoury,_ Commander? Practice caution, dear Ser, or I fear you’ll wake with a friendly knife in your throat.”

He laughs. “Oh, I’ve feared it before. If she’d meant to dispose of me, however, she’d have done so already. I believe we are both safe for the meanwhile.”

I shake my head and nudge my weight against his left side; Maker only knows if he can even feel it through all that steel.

“Speak for yourself, Cullen; it is only your inexplicable willingness to keep my secrets that spares me from her gaze.”

“Secrets?”

“Unless you told her of my phylactery and she miraculously _permitted_ it to leave her possession. If so, I shudder to think what machinations would motivate such a risk…”

Cullen rubs the back of his neck.

“I didn’t tell her, no.” His voice is quiet. It gnaws at me, this curiosity. This confusing man before me. _A Lady never pries,_ but…

“Whyever not?” I whisper into the breeze around us.

He doesn’t respond, just surveys the stone bridge we’re approaching. A strategist’s eyes: likely, he’s counting the skids of wood and stone, noting how many have yet to be delivered for reconstruction efforts.

“You had a destination in mind, my lady?”

I swallow down my impatience and nod, endeavouring not to wring my hands.

“There,” I point to the start of scaffolding beside the bridge. Lifting my skirts, I climb over the ledge and gingerly begin to lower myself down the side, using the rough wooden beams as a ladder.

Cullen rushes to be beside me, climbing down with a confidence I envy. He holds on with only one hand, the other hovering at my lower back. Only the barest touch.

I pause for a moment to send him a lighthearted smile. “Never fear; I had a most excellent climbing tutor, Commander. The Hinterlands hold no challenge for me anymore. And this? This is child’s play.”

Before he can question or object, I swing my body wildly to the side, missing the giant icicles and landing on the stone beneath the bridge.

Cullen follows effortlessly. A man that large, weighed down with partial armour and a weapon, has _no right_ being so graceful. _A Lady does not grumble under her breath_.

I cast some quick wards, for privacy and silence and protection from anything more dangerous than a nug.

“What spell is that?” I turn to see Cullen’s smile a little tighter, hand on his pommel again.

“Silencing wards. Pardon my paranoia, but all this talk of the spymaster makes me wonder if she has anyone following us. Is my dossier growing with each Game of Trades?”

He looks stricken. “I hadn’t considered that. Maker’s breath, if she is…”

“Cullen,” I place a hand reassuringly on his arm. “These wards have been up every conversation at the docks. Your secrets are safe with me.” _A Lady does not wink,_ so I merely smile at him again _._

He glances at my hand, then at my face, expression unreadable.

“Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t tell her.”

I quirk my head in question.

“The Nightingale – if Cassandra knew I relied on your magic to survive these headaches, she’d have been forced to confide in Leliana. Together, they might have relieved me of my position – perhaps they still should –”

“Cullen,” I interrupt again, pressing more insistently at his arm. “Cullen, a moment of weakness does not undo all the strength with which you lead. Besides, how could I have told Cassandra, after you so mercifully kept my secrets?”

“ _Your_ secrets?”

I nod with a small, sad, smile. “You’re far too easy to talk to, Cullen. One mere conversation at our – at _the_ dock, and I unthinkingly admit that Leliana’s account of Ostwick Circle is a fabrication.”

He huffs for a moment, gaze falling across the frozen lake, beautifully framed by the giant icicles spiralling from the bridge.

“What would I even have told her, Evelyn?”

I take a deep breath.

“Perhaps that Lysette killed the Knight Commander herself?”

I expected outrage, revulsion, anger. I see only surprise on his features.

Moving slowly to the icy edge, I swing my legs down and look at the sun glinting off the lake.

“We heard of other Circles disbanding or rising up,” I begin. “Heard of bloodshed. Ostwick wasn’t like that. Our mages were mild – boring, really.” I risk a look at his face.

Cullen’s expression clearly says, _Boring? You?_ He seats himself beside me in silence, in his usual spot. Right where he belongs.

I chuckle a little and lean into him. “Perhaps I was an exception, Rutherford. Nonetheless,” I continue, “the mages gathered, alone, to discuss how to proceed.”

“How did you manage that?” His brow wrinkles. “Mages could never congregate alone –”

“One of my experiments…”

He chuckles at that. “Of course. What was it this time? Some magical jelly trapping all the Templars in the courtyard?”

“Magically-produced adhesives are trickier than you may believe, Cullen…”

He laughs. “Please, tell me you’re joking. Tell me you didn’t stick every Templar to the floor like some deranged cat caught in a honey flytrap.”

Snickering, I shake my head. “No, no. Nothing so whimsical. It was just a modified ward, a barrier to the library, which only our mages could enter. Lysette was posted at the door to report that we were discussing the future of the Circle. We would bring our suggestions to them shortly.”

“I take it the Knight-Commander didn’t like that.”

“He was surprisingly amenable. At first.”

“Oh? And hopefully quite impressed by the powerful and inventive warding magic?”

I blush a bit, warming at the compliment.

“We decided not to dissolve the Circle – the only Tower in the Free Marches to choose perseverance.”

“I didn’t take you for a Loyalist.”

I shrug one shoulder delicately. “I can’t speak for all Circles, Cullen – but ours served a good purpose. Our recommendation was that all non-Harrowed apprentices remain until their Harrowings; that Enchanters remain to teach them, that Templars remain to protect them.”

Cullen’s expression is confused and… and impressed? He nods for me to elaborate.

“Harrowed mages would be permitted to come and go as they pleased, reporting in once a year to make sure no abominations roamed the land. Phylacteries would remain at the tower.”

“None objected? Those are generous terms, Trevelyan.”

I glow a little bit; I was proud of those compromises. They may mean nothing now, but to hear another person praise them so… I sigh and lean onto his shoulder, bracing myself for the rest.

“Some objected, but First Enchanter Lydia and I were ever persuasive. Perhaps the Maker smiled upon our words, for the vote was unanimously supported.”

“And yet…”

“And yet, it was not to be,” I confirmed. “Deliberations had taken a very long while – during which our Knight-Commander received several missives from other Circles, Circles where rebellion and blood magic wreaked havoc. By the time Lydia and I reached his office – escorted by Lysette, of course – he was raving. Kirkwall recommended Annulment,” I winced, “Tantervale as well. Starkhaven was a bloodbath.”

Cullen remained silent, tense.

I choke a bit. _A Lady always maintains her composure._ I straighten my back, smooth my skirts.

“First Enchanter Lydia laid out the mages’ stipulations. The Knight Commander ignored her, ordered his soldiers to retrieve the mages from the library and escort them to their chambers.”

The former Templar beside me hisses in his breath.

“Preparing for the Rite…” he whispers.

I nod sullenly.

“I still wonder if… perhaps… if I had let the barrier down and obeyed his orders, perhaps he would not have snapped.”

Cullen barks out a ruthless chuckle. “If he was anything like the Knight-Commanders I’ve served under, he was unhinged enough that no obedience would stay his hand.”

“I reasoned similarly; I kept the barrier up,” I sigh. “No Templar could breach it.”

“Remarkable,” Cullen intones – but the compliment feels hollow as familiar grief rises in my throat.

“Tell me, Commander, how would you dismantle a mage’s barrier if Dispelling and Smiting proved unsuccessful?”

He grimaces. “Kill the mage?”

I shake my head. “I wish – oh _Maker_ , how I wish. No, it’s possible, when a mage dies, for their residual magical energies to pour into the spells they were focused upon, strengthening them further. Too risky to kill, better to –”

“Make them Tranquil,” he finishes for me. “Cut them off from the Fade.”

“Exactly,” I whisper.

In a breach of decorum so unusual for him, Cullen raises his hand gently to my face. Turns me by the chin, swipes a thumb over my unmarred forehead. His eyes hold pain; an old, old, pain.

“Lysette interrupted the Rite?”

I sigh, swallowing back the tears. “No. She didn’t.”

His hand falls from my forehead to my shoulder, a comforting weight. “They assumed the barrier was Lydia’s; I was, after all, barely twenty-three, a junior Enchanter. Only Lysette truly knew the extent of my capabilities. They… they branded her. Quickly. Efficiently. I believe he had prepared for it.”

“ _Maker,_ the First Enchanter? I’m so sorry, Evelyn.”

I snort back a tear, hand stifling any un-Ladylike sobs or hiccups.

“It wasn’t until they turned the lyrium brand to me – spouting something about corrupting my fellow mages with vile imaginings of rebellion fueled by blood – that Lysette, Maker bless her, broke her Vows.”

“And killed the Knight Commander.”

I nod, mirthless. “Sword right through the gullet.”

“Effective, but she should have emasculated him first.”

The crass comment startles me into a giggle.

“Commander!” My voice is hoarse, but scandalized.

He grins sheepishly. “Pardon my candor, my lady.”

I whack his arm with the back of my left hand and continue, voice stronger: “Pardoned. Some Templars resisted, but most stood aside to let us leave. Some even accompanied us.”

“All the mages survived?”

“Yes. At least until the Conclave.”

“Oh.” Cullen’s hand flies to the back of his neck.

Before he can apologize or berate himself, I smile wryly. “So, to answer your question, Rutherford, I do not miss being a Lady. But by the Maker, I miss being an Enchanter. I miss experimenting. I miss peace.”

Cullen meets my smile with a mirthless laugh: “I doubt I’d even recognize what peace feels like anymore, to tell you the truth. Or perhaps…”

He trails off, his face unreadable.

“Perhaps this is the best peace I can ask for, now.” He gestures to the lake – dusk is just beginning to tint the sky, reflect across the snow-tipped mountains and houses. All is silent, save our breaths. He is warm beside me.

“Perhaps this is peace enough,” I add.

“It is for me,” he says with overwhelming sincerity. I lean against him again – for strength, or warmth, or comfort, I don’t know. His shoulder seems to offer all three.

We watch the ice, framed by icicles, for a while longer before I continue the Game of Trades.

“Do you ever wish you had magic, Cullen?”

He contemplates a moment. “Only when it’s this bitter cold. And recently, when my shoulders ache. Magic like yours – it’s a comfort in hard times.”

I hum in agreement.

“How old were you when your magic manifested?”

“Seven, almost eight. The Winter Squall of Ostwick, 9:24 Dragon. How old were you when you knew you wanted to be a Templar?”

“About the same,” he grins. “Those were simpler times.”

“For you, perhaps. Try explaining demons and Harrowings to a seven-year-old.”

“You mean you weren’t always too clever by half?”

I swat his arm again for the teasing. “I was a precocious one, but the fact remains that magic is a nuanced and finicky subject not fit for the simplicity of childhood.”

“How old were you Harrowed?”

“A year later.”

Cullen makes a strangled noise. “A _year_ later? At _eight_?”

“Nine,” I correct. “And this is another one of those pesky _secrets_ , Rutherford.”

“Maker’s breath, who in their right mind Harrows a _child?”_

“The alternatives were less attractive,” I shrug.

“Alternatives such as waiting until you were mature enough to survive it?” I rarely see Cullen’s anger; the grim set of his brow makes me pity those that do.

“I was too powerful to remain untested, Cullen. They were Smiting me every night just to keep the demons at bay. I was given a choice – Harrowing or Tranquility. Distasteful as it may be, even Ostwick had little else to offer.”

“Maker’s breath,” he exhales. “ _Evelyn_.”

I wait for him to say more, but he merely shakes his head and looks at his hands.

“Now, now, Rutherford,” I chastise quietly. “This isn’t what a Game of Trades is meant to be…”

He snorts. “Alright, my lady –”

“Honestly, Cullen, if you insist on calling me a Lady despite knowing _full well_ I don’t hold that title, I may have to push you off this ledge.”

“Do as you must, my l-Evelyn.”

His slip-of-the-tongue is too humorous to ignore. “‘ _My Evelyn’_? I’m yours, am I?”

“No! I meant, Maker, I just…” to his credit, he catches my mischievous grin much faster this time. “Imp. Not mine, no. But are you anyone else’s?” His smirk deepens.

“Disregarding the notion of my being _property_ , no, Rutherford, I’m not; I believe Josie and Leliana are busy spreading propaganda that the Herald of Blessed Andraste is pure as the driven snow – a paramour would surely sully the image, wouldn’t it?”

He laughs, hearty and deep. “I suppose it would.”

“How about you?”

“Am I anyone’s? Maker, no.” His fierce blush matches the sky again. “My heart belongs solely to the pile of paperwork waiting in my tent.”

“What a pity,” I sigh dramatically. “What a waste.”

Cullen shoots me a sardonic glare. “Yes, because every young maiden’s dream is a grumpy, scarred, workaholic.”

I laugh so loud it echoes in the little cave behind us, even though _a Lady does not snort._

“That’s not fighting fair, Rutherford – I can’t even object, because I’ve called you all those things before.” I lift my head to push at his shoulder. “Mean you to shame me for my cruelty?”

“No,” he grins, “just highlighting your excellent observation.”

“Am I permitted to refute?”

He laughs, nudging me back. “You can try.”

“Well,” I begin, in my best _Lady Trevelyan_ voice, “your current laughter and smile refute the grumpiness; your current location refutes the incessant workaholism; and I have it on very good information that many women liked scars.”

“I was speaking of metaphoric scarring.”

“You mean you weren’t referring to this?” I poke the scar on his lip gently.

He recoils from my finger, nose wrinkling, and laughs louder. “Certainly not!”

“How did you get it? Valiant chivalry, I assume?”

“Ah, ah, ah, Trevelyan. It is my turn to ask a question.”

“That it is. Never did I think I’d meet someone as stringent upon the rules as I am!”

“Every soldier relies upon his discipline to survive, Evelyn,” he teases.

“Yes,” I retort, “all your _disciplined_ soldiers who are currently getting drunk at the fish fry.”

Cullen chuckles again, leaning back on his hands.

“Why aren’t you with them?”

“Asking rather obvious questions now, aren’t we, Rutherford? The Herald of Andraste can’t get drunk with the soldiers; she must consider the approval of her companions. Even if I did go, Blackwall is sure to be there, and he’s still insisting on turning every conversation into a compliment of my beauty. I swear the man’s secretly Orlesian.”

Cullen huffs, disgruntled. I hold up a hand to silence him: “No need, Cullen. If the man bothered me, I have many creative and discrete ways to dissuade him. Now, I believe I’m owed an answer…”

He lifts an eyebrow in question.

Like earlier, I poke the prominent scar on his lip.

“Oh,” he snorts. “Well. Ironic timing, really. I, uh… was drunk. I… Well, I cut my lip on a chipped goblet. At a tavern. Well, at a brothel that I _thought_ was a tavern. But… turned out to be a brothel. And I was too ashamed to seek medical assistance.”

I purse my lips, holding back the snicker, and run a finger curiously along the scar.

“For all my magical experiments or talents, Cullen, I’m afraid I’m terrible at healing,” I shrug apologetically.

“A poor healer? That seems out of character, Trevelyan.”

I quirk my head, tossing a mage light before us to better see his face in the dim light of dusk.

“My headaches. The lake. Lysette’s withdrawals.”

I hum, looking away. “I try to help. That’s why it’s so frustrating that my magic veers predominantly toward destruction. Even my wards and barriers.”

“Yet you use destruction to help. I’m afraid my sword can’t do that.”

“Perhaps not,” I nudge him gently again, lingering. “But all those papers certainly can. You provide safety for refugees, resources for your forces, secure roads for every traveller...”

He casts me a grateful glance. “You make it sound so romantic. Perhaps that’s why I’m married to my work,” he jests.

I giggle, covering a snort with my hand.

“Your turn, Cullen.”

He falls back with an armoured thud, relaxing the way he often does on our dock.

“Did you use magic to provide heat or dry an area to sleep while travelling to the Conclave?”

“Naturally.”

“Could you… could you do that, here in Haven? Could you create a place for someone to sleep comfortably outside?”

In response, I cast a quick perimeter of heating wards, designed to keep the chill wind out while allowing airflow. The same ones I designed for my robes.

Cullen sighs as the little alcove heats like a hearth around him. For effect, I add a few small flame-like lights floating on the walls in imitation of scones.

“All you lack is a bedroll and you could camp like we do in the Hinterlands,” I announce, gracefully lying down beside him.

“It lacks the charm of a starry sky, but it’s much better than my tent. Thank you, Evelyn.”

“Surely you don’t intend to sleep here, Rutherford,” I chuckle.

“Why not? Will the wards fade before morning?”

“Andraste preserve us, is _this_ why your back is such a tragedy?”

“From sleeping on stone? Of course not. Sleeping at my desk, however…” he grins guiltily as I shake my head.

“Unfortunately, the wards will only last so long as I am here,” I admit. “Distance is strenuous, and after last night’s efforts…”

He nods silently, eyes lazily drifting across the ceiling.

I observe him carefully, this keeper of all my secrets.

“Cullen,” I whisper, unsure of what I aim to say.

I settle on a mere “thank you.” He hums contentedly in response, shrugging as though the burdens he bears for my sake is nothing to him.

One day, I resolve to find a way to thank him fully. But for tonight…

I close my eyes, whittling down the power of the Fade into tiny portions – little pockets of twinkling magic. Slowly, in my mind’s eye, the underside of the bridge becomes dotted with shimmering lights, as close to stars as I can manage.

I extinguish the other lights to draw his attention to my little skyscape.

“Evelyn,” he breathes, looking at me like a child with a brand new toy. “This is… Maker’s breath, I never thought it could be so…”

“Inaccurate?” I tease. The constellations are all wrong.

He chuckles, staring at the imitation sky. “Beautiful.”

I won’t be able to hold the lights forever, but the weariness around his eyes is finally ebbing away and his smile is so peaceful and…

**Cullen POV**

I wake often at night, but not often under starlight.

Or – starlight? The stars look wrong.

In an instant, memory returns. Evelyn lies beside me. Her little space under the bridge is still warm, still lit entirely by twinkling stars.

I once thought the light of a hearth suited her, but starlight suits her better.

I’m not sure how, but it just does.

I should wake her, or perhaps take my leave – Maker’s breath, she’s a lady, and supposedly holy and pure as driven snow – if you don’t know about stable hands and too-toothy grins – and she can’t be caught out in the darkness with a man like me.

I carefully rise to sit against the wall.

She sleeps curled on her side, clutching at her arms as though cold, despite the wards. I wonder if perhaps…

My cloak easily detaches and more than covers her small form.

I wake often at night. And I always wake before dawn. Perhaps while she protects me from the howling wind, I can protect her from everything else.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to awkwardly cut this chapter somewhere, so immediate follow up coming soon!
> 
> Have I run over every square inch of Haven for this story? You know it. You should be able to climb under that damn stone bridge and the fact that you can’t bothers me. Damn invisible walls.
> 
> Also, yes, Evelyn is way OP. All RPG protagonists are. 
> 
> Finally, immense thanks to those giving kudos and commenting! You make me so happy :)


	10. Breaks and Blushings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue Blushing&Bumbling!Cullen.  
> Also please join me in pretending that the Haven stables are more than a single sad horse in a single sad pen.

**Cullen POV**

I wake again, a third time.

The first thing I notice is feeling well-rested. A surprise.

The second is the darkness – no enchanting starlight splays above me, and the sun is still an hour or so from rising.

The third is the chill on my nose.

The fourth is that Evelyn’s shape – cozy and curled up like a cat, all night – isn’t rising and falling with her breath.

I rise, stiffly, to inspect the neatly-folded cloak where she slept. A note lies atop it, in her elegant but simple hand:

_Rutherford,_

_Are you still insisting you’ve no aspirations to become a Chevalier? I’d wager there’s something in their Code about needlessly lending your coat to a Lady…_

_Jesting aside, you’ve my utmost gratitude, Cullen. Not merely for the cloak (comforting and suffocating and endearing as it was), but for the kind ear._

_Maker keep you,_

_Evelyn_

The cloak is still warm when I clasp it around my shoulders.

***

In fact, the cloak stays warm for hours, a measureless blessing in the bitter cold air of early winter. The heat lingers through breakfast, where my oft-shy appetite makes a roaring reappearance.

Cassandra grunts happily in my direction, chewing on a sausage.

“I am glad to find you in such good health, Commander.”

I have nothing to say in response – how would I even begin? Tell her that I’m slowly being stitched together by doses of calming magic? That I even _believe_ in such a thing as _calming_ magic? Magic, the very source of my weaknesses, my torments… I chuckle darkly to myself.

“Andraste smiles on me with blessings, Seeker.” It is a catch-all phrase, a diplomacy. But it rings true.

“I hope,” she adds as she stands, “that her Herald’s departure to the Hinterlands will not disturb this health.”

I wince. Cassandra’s sharp glare bores into me from above.

“Do not concern yourself, Seeker. I can endure.”

She scoffs. “Do not take me for a fool. The moment we leave you will go back to slaving over your reports.”

“Those reports,” I pinch the bridge of my nose, “are instrumental to –”

“ _Ugh_. I am _aware_. Tell me, Cullen: do you care so little for her efforts?”

My reddening ears and slow exhale are all answer she requires.

“Then do not let her hard work be wasted,” she implores. “Rest. Spar. _Eat_. Maker knows I will not coddle you as she clearly does.”

Cassandra stomps away before I can correct her; for all Evelyn’s instructions and insistences, she does not _coddle_ anyone. She is no mother hen. She’s… perhaps more like a sister. Like Mia. Ever helpful, never condescending.

And, like Mia, never thanked enough for her hard work. I find myself trying to swallow guilt down with the water in my tankard.

A moment later, the Seeker stomps back into the room.

“I was too harsh,” she declares, with anger in place of remorse. “I am… truly happy, to see you so well, Cullen. It would be upsetting to return from our travels to see you worse again. As your… compatriot, I implore you to take care of yourself.”

I raise an eyebrow at her, see her stern gaze flicker with worry and care.

I sigh and rub my face. “If I prioritize these ridiculous concerns –” she scoffs. “Will you perhaps… could you do me a favour while in the Hinterlands? As a… compatriot. And friend.”

Cassandra sits beside me, forever ready to undertake a challenge. Forever loyal. Forever gazing straight through me.

When I’ve explained my request, we raise tankards and toast. To promises made.

My hands do not shake.

My cloak is still warm.

***

“Commander!” Josephine’s melodic lilt rings out from the gates across the training grounds, a hand shielding her eyes from the midday sun.

“Lady Josephine,” I give a shallow bow, startled. “I confess I’ve never seen you outside the gates. Is something wrong?” My hand clenches impulsively around my pommel.

She laughs brightly. “Oh, no, Commander. There is no cause for alarm. I was merely…” she picks lightly at the hem of her skirt, flattening an unseen wrinkle. “I was feeling a little… overwhelmed in the Chantry, so the dear Herald suggested I take a promenade around the grounds. See the lovely people of Haven. She claimed it was most diverting.”

“Diverting,” I snort. “Is that how she described the smell of an army?”

Josephine’s thin fingers cover her mouth delicately. “I admit, one becomes used to it alarmingly quickly.”

“I imagine that’s how the Herald survives it.”

Josephine smirks wryly at me. “Did she not tell you, Commander? The Trevelyans are famed equestrians. The Herald spent much of her time at home amidst their various stables; such odours are not unfamiliar to her.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of her love of horses,” I chuckle. Josie smiles at me as though we have a shared secret. Perhaps we do.

“Where is our Herald?” I inquire. After overseeing these drills, I may finally have a moment to seek her out, to thank her.

“May I speak candidly, Cullen?” Josephine’s face is weary, her voice hesitant.

Immediately my concern returns. “Of course, Josie.”

“Lady Trevelyan is a talented diplomat. She is currently using these formidable talents to… give me a break. From the nobility of Orlais, the Chantry’s threats, the grousing of Haven’s inhabitants…” she blushes and covers her face.

“Josie,” I turn, blocking her from the soldiers’ view. “Everyone needs a break...” I fumble for the right words, damning my ineloquence. “Warriors… they deplete their stamina, mages run out of mana – so whatever fearsome gift you use to wrangle these nobles, no one assumed it was infinite…”

She giggles and casts me a grateful smile.

“That is almost precisely what Evelyn told me, before suggesting this walk.”

“Where do you think I gleaned such wisdom?” I smirk.

“Well,” she declares with all the formality of a War Council. “The walk was, as promised, an excellent distraction. I believe it is time I returned to my duties. Though perhaps I shall take the… leisurely route. Thank you, Commander; pardon my disturbance.”

As her golden ruffles return to the Chantry, I catch hold of Rylen.

“Are you capable of completing these drills, Captain?”

He seems confused. “Erm… aye, Ser, I could…”

“Then do so. You have my authority. Have a runner fetch me if needed.”

Rylen stutters for a moment, but as I turn to catch up to Josie, he claps me on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Ser.” I catch his gaze, which holds such baffled joy, and such sincerity. I merely nod in response. _Perhaps he could run drills more often._

A few quick strides and I’m at Josephine’s side.

“My lady,” I bow my head and offer my elbow, which she graciously accepts without preamble. “I find I, too, would like to follow the Herald’s advice.”

Her smile is buoyant. “Of course. Everyone needs a break, Commander.”

***

We find Evelyn just outside Josephine’s office, with a young blonde woman of similar stature and a large, portly man whose greying beard would just skim the top of Evelyn’s head. Maker, I forget how short she is.

“And timely as ever, this is our Ambassador, Lady Josephine Montiliyet of Antiva.”

Josephine curtsies deeply as the man kisses her hand; “I trust the Herald of Andraste has suitably kept you company in my absence?”

“Oh, she’s been a delight,” the man chortles. He looks to his daughter for agreement. The doe-eyed woman blinks and nods shyly, biting her lip.

I watch Evelyn and Josie share a conspiring glance and can’t help but feel that I’m missing something.

Before I can plan a retreat, or better, some way to capture Evelyn alone, Josephine turns and introduces me with the usual meaningless ornamentation.

“Rutherford, you say?” the old gentleman – Lord Hemsley of Velun, apparently – inquires. “Fereldan, I wager.”

I nod, “Might I assume the same?” The man wears no mask, despite his Orlesian lordship, and his grin is homely, comforting. Not haughty enough for Void-damned Orlais.

“Indeed! A dirty turnip, as they say in Val Firmin,” Lord Hemsley chuckles. He holds no shame in the fact. I find myself warming to him quickly.

“Pardon my ‘Fereldan’ manners, Commander,” he continues with a wink. “I should introduce my daughter, Bridget.”

The young woman, likely twenties, blushes brightly and presents her hand. At Josie’s ever-so-subtle nod of encouragement, I kiss her knuckles as rapidly as I can without bowling the poor thing over. _Maker’s breath, Rutherford. Be casual._

“A pleasure, Ser.” Her voice is pleasant, warm. She has a pretty smile.

The lord hums with a critical eye. “Ser Rutherford, you seem awfully young for your rank.”

Bridget’s blushing and exuberant smile still has me flustered. “Erm, yes. My lord. I suppose you could say so,” I fumble.

Evelyn is my rescuer: “The very Inquisition is young, my Lord; a fledgling at best, and our Commander here has conducted himself most competently in circumstances that would shake any seasoned veteran.”

Josephine chimes in as well, speaking of how Cassandra specifically recruited me – _Seeker Pentaghast_ , yes of _those_ Pentaghasts – and Maker, if Cass were here…

I catch Evelyn’s gaze; behind the poise and nobility, I see a glimmer of something mischievous.

“But Monsieur, I’m terribly sorry to say I must pull you from this delightful company,” Josie croons. “I have several queries regarding the acquisition of resources amongst some more… troublesome members of Val Firmin nobility…”

Josephine leads the portly man into her office, leaving the daughter and Evelyn. Evelyn, who is hiding a smirk delicately behind a glove.

“Have you much family around Haven, Ser?” Bridget asks. I rub the back of my neck; speaking of Mia and Bran and Rosalie always makes me sweat a little.

“Near enough. I have siblings in South Reach, my lady.”

“How lovely for them,” she smiles with twinkling eyes, “to have you so close by! They must miss you terribly.”

I flush deeper, swallowing shame. “I confess I am not the best brother; I have not visited in some time.”

“What tragedy,” she bites her lip again. “I imagine your duties as Commander keep you very occupied, as well as your other responsibilities.”

 _Other responsibilities?_ I instinctively look to Evelyn for clarity, who graciously responds on my behalf:

“Commander Cullen keeps very busy, indeed; he was particularly inundated directly after the catastrophe at the Conclave. But his excellent leadership has recently allowed him more time to take breaks, to step away from his work,” another glimmer of mischief brightens Evelyn’s green eyes, “and even to make new acquaintances.”

Whatever message her ridiculous noble double-speak conveys, Bridget is delighted by it.

“How fortunate!” she beams, pulling her long braid across her shoulder. “Surely there are many eager for the opportunity.”

I clear my throat. “And what of you, my lady? If your father is Fereldan, have you any family nearby?”

“How kind of you to inquire, Ser. I have, yes, in Denerim, though I find the city awfully suffocating compared to the fields outside Velun.”

I smile at that. “I quite agree.”

“You’ve spent much time in the capital then, my lord?”

“Please,” I fidget, “call me Cullen.” I am still uncomfortable with this inexplicable assumption of nobility. “And I’ve spent some time in the cities of the Free Marches.”

“Oh, how dreadful, Ser Cullen,” she exclaims, laying a hand daintily on Evelyn’s arm. “No insult to your homestead, Your Worship, but the Marches are awfully gloomy compared to the sunny fields of southern Orlais.”

Evelyn smiles demurely. Her hands are clasped politely in front of her.

“I find,” she murmurs, “that though Fereldan winds whip as sharply as Ostwick’s, there is more sunshine to ease the bite. And the common folk here are an affable, hardy people –”

“Carved from stone itself, they are.” Bridget blushes again and stares directly at me.

Evelyn raises an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

“My father has much respect for them, you know,” Bridget adds. “For the common Fereldan. He says there’s more nobility in the toiling of these hills than all the splendour of Val Royeaux.”

Her eyes never leave me as she speaks, a shy smile tugging at her lips. I scratch the back of my neck again. The Chantry seems cramped, somehow.

“He’s quite unorthodox that way,” she continues with a tilt of her head. “Despite our noble titles, any man that makes something of himself is found honourable in Lord Hemsley’s eyes.”

“I’m sure you can appreciate such sentiments, Commander?” Evelyn’s teasing lilt is so familiar.

“I, uhm… well, yes, of course, such… such an outlook is to be commended.” _Maker’s breath._

“For my part,” Bridget declares, “a suitably handsome man could be a pauper and still hold my interest.”

Evelyn laughs – a calculated laugh, not the real one that’s too toothy and punctuated by snorts. “How generous of you, my lady.”

“I wonder, perhaps, Ser Cullen…” Andraste preserve me, when did she approach so close? “I wonder if you could escort me about the grounds of Haven? So that I might see if any such suitably handsome, competent, honourable men can be found here...”

I must be red as setting sun itself. My hand twitches on my pommel.

“Though, uhm, that would… though I’d be delighted to, my lady, I must… that is, I came to request the Herald’s input on a matter. Somewhat urgently. My – my deepest apologies, my lady.” I bow for good measure. Bridget’s bright smile turns tense.

Evelyn looks concerned. “Should I call for Seeker Cassandra or Sister Leliana?”

Before she can assemble a full War Council, I interrupt: “No, that won’t be necessary. I, erm. That is, I wished to discuss the potential of Trevelyan mounts. For the Inquisition forces, of course.”

Her eyebrow jerks. “Naturally, Commander. I would suggest we consult Horsemaster Dennet, if that is amenable to you. I believe he can be found at the stables.” Her tone is calm but her sharp eyes promise many questions.

“Excellent. A good day to you, Lady Bridget. I hope you find your visit to Haven fruitful.” I bow again, and finally feel as though I can exhale.

Evelyn makes the expected decorous farewell; when she turns from the blonde and slowly floats out of the Chantry, I follow in silence.

We make it all the way to the end of the stables, farthest from Haven, before Evelyn swiftly enters a small, dark barn for temporary hay storage. Her wards fall into place with a momentary shimmer.

When I enter behind her, her small hands are on her hips, her head cocked in confusion.

I feel rather like a scolded urchin running away from the Chantry mothers.

“Maker have _mercy_ , Cullen. What was that?”

“… An awkward conversation? My apologies, Evelyn, I’m not trained in diplomacy –”

“– Diplomacy? Rutherford, that wasn’t a diplomatic exchange. That was a kind, lovely, pretty girl exhibiting interest in you! Josie’s going to be _heartbroken_.”

I rub the back of my head and snort, leaning against a haybale. “I’m not trained in ‘interested ladies’ either, Evelyn.”

“Was she pretty?”

“I suppose so…”

“Did she seem kind?”

“Certainly,” I respond.

“Open-minded?”

“Evelyn – what is this about?”

“Graceful, genuine, witty?”

“Evelyn.”

“I met you on a battlefield, Cullen.” She’s laughing as she speaks, in exasperation, it seems. “We met as you sliced through demons, carried men with ghastly injuries from the Breach. You gave orders, praise, rebukes with the voice of a Commander.”

“Evelyn…” I try again, my voice softer.

“You were – _are_ – the consummate knight, Rutherford. Much as you may deny it. Why aren’t you currently escorting the beautiful lady ‘round our proud little village?”

I sigh, examining my boots.

“You know I fumble in conversation –”

She glides towards me, tilts my chin to meet her stern gaze.

“Not when it’s important. I’ve never seen you fumble when it’s important.”

I snort. “And impressing Orlesian ladies? That’s crucial to the success of the Inquisition? I must have misplaced that particular missive.”

I can’t comprehend how or why, but my words fill Evelyn’s eyes with grief. She looks away. Masks her melancholy in that tranquil, noble face I so abhor.

“Evelyn?”

When she doesn’t respond, I stand and place a hand on her shoulder. She continues to look away, but finally speaks with a dull voice: “That’s the difference, then? That’s where I erred. I thought you might find your own wellbeing equally important to the wellbeing of the Inquisition. A miscalculation.”

I snort, running a hand through my hair. “Of course it’s not as important.”

“It should be.” She stares at me _imperiously_ , and it’s so reminiscent of the stern conviction with which she attempted dock-climbing weeks ago, I can’t help but laugh.

Her brow furrows. “Did I miss a jest, Rutherford?”

“You’re glaring at me like I’m a high ledge that you can’t climb.”

An unseemly snort escapes her. She smirks.

“Watch your tongue, Ser Cullen, or I’ll not introduce you to any more beautiful, privileged women smitten with your Fereldan charms…”

“You could introduce me to countless, Evelyn, if only to watch me suffer.”

“So you’ll not pursue the lovely Lady Hemsley?”

“After today’s performance, I’d better not.”

She giggles again. Leans against the tall haybale, where I join her.

“Cullen,” she exhales after a moment, “I… care for you. I consider you a friend. As such, I wish to bring you happiness.”

My heart warms at her honesty. “Serving the Inquisition, focusing my efforts on its success – that _does_ bring me happiness, Evelyn.”

She nudges me, more forcefully than usual. “But there can be more to your life than drills and falling asleep over endless reports.”

“There is. Haven’t you noticed? My life has an exasperating mage continually pulling me from my duties and telling me to seek more from life.”

Evelyn scoffs in feigned offense. “What about when that mage travels to the Hinterlands? Do you return to your endless reports?”

“I’d be more inclined to if some of those reports were written by her,” I tease. I consider telling her that no report could replace our easy, comfortable repartee, but such sincerity could only dampen her smile. Nothing should dampen her smile.

“Somewhere between wrangling rams and hunting rare herbs, I believe I should find time.”

“Rams and rare herbs? Not fade rifts?”

“Rifts, too, naturally; no need for concern, Commander: I know my objectives.”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Rams?” I ask, somewhat afraid of the answer.

“Poor villager lost his. I may need to use all my etiquette training to charm the creature back into captivity, but I believe it possible. If not, I’ll just have Cassandra tackle the poor thing.”

I relent. “Herbs, then?”

She shrugs a shoulder delicately, pulling a long piece of hay from her skirt. “That one is by Cassandra’s request: she needs Crystal Grace for some purpose she cannot divulge. I have some of my First Enchanter’s horticultural notes and should be able to locate the specimens she seeks.”

I try not to flush or cough. I keep my hands from fidgeting.

“She is lucky to have you as a friend,” I say instead. When Evelyn turns her smile to me, it is warm and bright and sinks into me like the soothing weight of my heated cloak.

I nudge her gently, and add: “As am I. Thank you, Evelyn. For the stars and the cloak and the fish and the – _Maker’s breath –_ the teasing, too.”

Her smile is toothy and radiant; Evelyn rarely truly blushes, but this bloom of pink beneath her freckles is an enchanting sight.

“Come,” she says. “It’s time the Herald and the Commander return to their posts.”

As Evelyn plucks hay from her dress and braid, muttering under her breath, I notice the weary set of her shoulders.

“No,” I blurt.

She furrows her brow at me.

“No, you won’t. You’ve exhausted your mana two nights in a row, now? You leave for the Hinterlands in a day. You’ve spent all morning relieving poor Josie of her burdens. You’ll not go back to any ‘post’, Trevelyan. You’ll head straight to bed. I’ll have Josephine send dinner to your quarters.”

She huffs, clasping her hands behind her back.

“I wasn’t aware you’d been promoted to my superior officer, Commander. Do I follow your orders now?”

“If you don’t,” I smirk, “I’ll send Cassandra after you.”

She snickers. “And I should fear her?”

“She tackled a _b_ _ear,_ Evelyn.”

Her eyes are bright with challenge. “And If I _don’t_ fear the fearsome Seeker?”

“Very well; I’ll come after you myself.”

“And what do you think you could do, _Templar_?” Evelyn teases, conjuring a charged barrier and lightning to dance around her fingertips. My jaw clenches, but I know her too well. These are for effect. If I just –

I launch myself at her waist; as expected, her defenses disappear before they can injure me, and I toss her effortlessly over a shoulder, gripping her wrists.

“No fair!” she whines.

“I’d be a horrid Commander if I had no head for tactics, Evelyn.”

I turn to look her in the eyes; her head bobs over my shoulder, feet kicking listlessly at my back.

She pouts.

“As you wish, my lady; I suppose I could carry you across Haven like this…”

“No, no, no. No need for theatrics, Rutherford. I’ll rest. Even holy figures need a break, I suppose.”

I place her back on her feet, slowly, and her small gloved hands grip my arms for support.

“For the record, Cullen,” she smirks, “should you change your mind and endeavour to court fair Bridget, effortlessly lifting her off the ground would be a brilliant _tactic_ to employ _._ ”

“Oh, but haven’t you heard, Trevelyan? Stables are no place for a _lady._ ”

Evelyn’s laugh rings clear in the little barn as she whacks my arm. “You cad.”

“Imp.”

“If I’m to go straight to bed, Commander, that means _you’ll_ have to inform Josie that her dreams of planning the Hemsley wedding are to be dashed.”

I groan and rub my forehead.

Evelyn laughs again, the most beautiful sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic isn’t dead; I just had the flu. All better now :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading! If there’s anything you want to see more/less of, just comment.


	11. Injurious Distance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lysette does the Maker's work. Or the Creators' work. Or this creator's work, at least.

**Cullen POV**

Loathe as I am to admit it, Cassandra’s concerns are not unfounded; without her glower across the sparring ring, without sunset walks filled with Evelyn’s gentle teasing, without Varric’s witty ribbing in the tavern, there is little to distract me from the relentless silence and pangs of withdrawal.

Little to distract, save my work. My reports. Rylen and a few keen lieutenants run the morning drills on rotation now, leaving me stranded in my command tent, poring over the reports.

Crucial reports. Instrumental reports. _Dull_ reports. Eventually they blur, the words spinning on the parchment.

Maker, but this is a slow suffocation.

At least Evelyn, ever true to her word, sends reports from the Hinterlands. They are polite, brief, and altogether very proper. Exactly as missives from the Herald of Andraste should be. I can’t help but glower at them.

I also glower at the small teapot and cup currently staining two circles on my unfinished guard rotations. Any moment now – _there we go._ The flap of my tent opens. I hear the boy outside protesting, but his shaky pleas have become more resigned these days.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Lysette?” I drawl as she approaches my desk, unannounced and unwelcomed.

Lysette snorts. “You know bloody well why I’m here, Commander. It’s three bells past high noon.”

She takes the empty teapot and replaces it with one that’s still steaming, a gentle aroma of bitter herbs and dark black tea. Not a drop of honey to make it palatable.

“I hate to disappoint you, recruit – but this is the worst tea I’ve ever tasted.”

She smirks and makes a show of inspecting the empty kettle, turning it upside down. A meager drop falls on the guard rotation draft and I can feel my face stitching back into a scowl.

“It’s better if you don’t notice you’re drinking it, isn’t it? Can’t keep the blasted stuff down myself unless I’m distracted with something else. Preferably ale, but Evie _disapproves_ , does that little frown thing that makes her look like a disgruntled librarian? So only ale when Evie’s around to be all bothered by it –”

“– Thank you, Lysette. You may return to your duties.” I can’t help but smile when she simultaneous curtsies and makes a rude gesture, before swivelling on her heel and exiting my tent. The empty teapot clanks against her armour.

Lysette first arrived a day after Evelyn – the Herald, that is – left for a final excursion to the Hinterlands. The break of dawn, with a teapot and a frown. I soon learned that Lysette doesn’t like mornings. Or mid-day. Or evenings. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t like her new role of Tea Deliverer.

She returns mid-day and just after dusk. Always with a teapot and an astonishing amount of insubordination for a lifelong Templar. What’s in the tea? _She can’t say._ Who sends it? _She can’t say_. Is it poison? _Probably not._

I drink it nonetheless.

***

“She’s back tomorrow,” Lysette intones with a knowing grin. She swaps the teapots leisurely.

“I’ve received the reports. They were most impressive.”

“Ah, yeah – that’s little Evie. Ever over-achieving. Taking out mages and Templars and bears, oh my!” She feigns a swoon. It looks ridiculous on a fully-armoured body.

“The tea comes from her, doesn’t it?”

“ _I can’t say_ ,” Lysette repeats her sing-song mantra. Her broad smirk is all confirmation I’ll get – and all I need.

“What’s in it?”

“Hurlock’s piss, going by the flavour.”

I snort hot tea. Damn. Another report stained by the stuff.

Lysette continues, shrugging and waving the small clay teapot: “I don’t rightly know, Ser. I don’t ask her for specifics. It’s always felt too… _Templar-y_ , if you catch my meaning. Wait. Of course you do. Maker’s balls, it’s just… I want her to know that I trust her, right Ser? And that’s hard to do when I’m asking her about every bloody potion under her bed – you didn’t hear me say that – and every little spell she wants to cast and every –”

I hold up a hand to silence her, surprised that it works.

“I understand.”

***

“I am relieved the new routes will be able to service Mayor Terragon’s lands, Commander,” Josie adds with a smile. “He was … rather dedicated in his petitions. It will be a pleasant change of pace to deliver good news.”

“Half the new recruits in the past month have come from his hamlet,” I nod, massaging my stiff neck; no matter how plush Josephine’s tufted armchairs, my neck bemoans the lengthy meeting. “They’re green, but you’ll never meet more devout boys than those. The Inquisition should be a friend to such people.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, Commander. Now, there is only one remaining matter, tangential to this one, if I may…?”

I sigh, knowing that every minute leaves my recently-delivered midday tea colder. The only manner of worsening that bitter concoction is to let it get cold and stale.

“Yes, Ambassador?”

“The Mayor has a daughter, purportedly a unique beauty and the best fiddler in the Bannorn –”

_Maker’s breath._

“No.”

“Come now, Cullen,” she whines.

“ _No,_ Josie. If you haven’t noticed, there is a gaping hole in the sky spewing demons! This is no time for… for _romance!_ ”

“But the Inquisition’s connections, limited as they may be, could be imminently useful in securing a match –”

“ _Josie._ ” The word is barely more than a growl. The first headache I’ve had all week starts to creep up behind my brow.

“ _Cullen._ ”

She stares me down, every bit as stern and formidable as the Inquisition’s opposers know her to be.

I stare back.

Josephine is first to break eye contact, sighing and slouching – a rare sight – into her upholstered armrest. “When this all ends, Cullen –”

“ _If_ it all ever ends,” I mutter with a scowl.

“ _When_ it all ends, Commander,” she fixes me with the same fevered glare as before: “when we have peace once more, if the Inquisition does not endure beyond its purpose, I do not want you left bereft on the streets of Denerim like so many veterans, Cullen.”

To my surprise, tears twinkle in the corners of her eyes. Her composure never slips, however; she straightens her posture and continues, unabashed.

“I wish for you to have a better life than _ex-Templar_ can grant you; to have also the respect that a _Commander,_ former or otherwise, deserves. I want you to have land somewhere, a home to return to, a wife and children to love. Such things are terribly difficult to secure, Cullen, and I have the tools before me to obtain them for you. I intend to do so, despite your stubbornness.”

I find I cannot respond.

“I just want…” she sighs, gathering papers from the table beside us and standing. “It is my duty as Ambassador to see beyond the horizon and strategize accordingly. Surely the Commander can understand this.”

My mouth is dry.

“Josie…”

My thoughts form no coherence. _Do they ever?_

“Though perhaps,” Josephine hums, her voice deceivingly light, “perhaps it is difficult to recognize the wisdom in such endeavours when they sound too akin to sisterly teasing…”

I catch her eye and see she’s broken into a shy grin, sitting behind her usual desk.

“Have you any brothers, Lady Montiliyet?”

“Yes, Ser, two. And a sister.”

“Maker protect them from your wisdom, then.”

To my surprise, she daintily crumples a piece of paper and throws it at my head with a wicked smirk to match my own.

It falls short. I crumple it tighter and launch it right back, where it almost ignites on the candle of her writing pad.

“Commander! Such recklessness!”

“Ambassador!” I mimic, “Such cheek!”

She giggles. Josephine has an infectious giggle, and when the waves of it have finally finished interrupting her, she thanks me.

“I suppose I have been a bit much,” she confesses. “With all these Fereldan noble daughters.”

I shrug and walk to her desk to fiddle with a fancy pen on it. “A bit. It is a fault easy to forgive, my Lady.”

“I suppose my usual targets are missing, and you’ve felt the brunt of my meddlesome affections.”

“Your usual targets?”

“Leliana has been… not the same since the Divine’s passing. Understandably, of course. And Evelyn’s almost single-handedly ending the mage-templar skirmishes across the Hinterlands. I cannot fault her for that. But it is… quiet, here in Haven.”

Maker, but I can resonate with that.

“Too quiet,” I mutter.

She shoots me a grateful smile.

“Don’t worry, Josie. They return tomorrow. I promise you first rights to her leisure time in order to spare others from your … ‘wisdoms’.”

She merely giggles again and sends me on my way.

***

“Rise and shine, Commander!”

I glance at the bedraggled Templar stumbling into my tent. Lysette’s armour is askew, the teapot sloshing in her hand.

“Maferath’s fucking bones, of _course_ you’re already awake and… and _Commandering._ ”

“Can I help you, recruit? You’re several hours earlier than usual…”

“Drink the blighted tea.” She slams the clay pot on my desk, and I’m glad I had the foresight to remove any loose papers when she entered. “We’ve got to go.”

“Go where?”

“ _I can’t_ –” she begins to chime but interrupts herself. “Wait. Fuck it, I _can_ say this time. We’re going to go meet Evelyn’s party on the road.”

My mind immediately conjures a dozen emergency scenarios, all of them including Evelyn’s frail little body bloodied and broken. I jump to my feet. “What’s happened?”

She has the audacity to _yawn._

Despite my restricting armour, I almost _fly_ across the tent to tower over her, the full force of the intimidating Commander glowering down.

Lysette swallows and immediately salutes: an ingrained response.

“No need to worry, Ser – that is, there is no emergency, Ser; no response required from the Inquisition… Ser.”

“What. Happened?” I snarl.

“Evelyn wrote – the usual, really. But this time, she…” Lysette pulls parchment from her pouch.

I snatch it from her hand, skimming at the same pace that my heart hammers.

_… the bears are truly rather obnoxious…_

_… Lydia’s herbicultural notations were immensely useful… found the sub-species intact…_

_… thank the Maker for Varric…_

_… slaughtering…_

_… no casualties and barely a scratch on any of the party…_

_… myself becoming rather expedient with the modified ice barriers…_

“Maker’s breath,” I mutter in relief, finding no trace of danger.

Lysette, misunderstanding, nods empathetically. “Yes, she’s always this… wordy. _Verbose_ , she says. She’s always been, especially about her research….”

My brow furrows. “But then… but why are you concerned for her?”

“Oh,” she gestures to a small section. “These lines here.”

I read the paragraph in its entirety. Drink in each word.

_We eliminated the last of those rabid mages today. Thank the Maker that task is finished. And thank the Maker for Varric. He alone realized that slaughtering dozens of what would have been my brethren could shake me. If only the Conclave had succeeded… but such wishes are historic, now. Such hypotheticals are merely academic. Varric intuited my distress and filled my night with stories. He is one of the good ones, Lys._

_Today, the final rogue templars met their end, as well. This valley will see relative peace at last. Andraste blessed us with good fortune and better weather; there were no casualties and barely a scratch on any of the party. We move on southward tomorrow; I hope to test the endurance of my spirit wards on the Rift there._

I huff, frustrated. “Explain yourself, Lysette. How is this concerning?”

“The Templars, Commander. No one’s thought to console her about the Templars.”

“I’m afraid I’m still not following.”

“Oh, Andraste’s holy tits, preserve me. We don’t have time.”

I re-read the letter, hearing Evelyn’s her quick wit in each turn of phrase, seeking out whatever hints Lysette has found…

She shoves a cup of lukewarm tea into my spare hand. “Drink up, Ser. We can talk on the way there.”

The tea is still bitter and does nothing to wash the sour taste from my mouth.

I follow her nonetheless.

***

Once we leave the walls of Haven behind – and the dozens of curious eyes and a few salacious grins – I make note to get Rylen to squash any rumours later – Lysette speaks up again.

“Well, that was awkward, wasn’t it?”

If it was, I’d hardly noticed. Evelyn’s words rang out in my mind as we saddled our horses and left with the rising sun.

“Nevertheless:” she sighs, “worth it. Evelyn’s entire, well, _modus operandi_ , as her favourite Tevinter researchers say, is to help people. ‘Bout time someone helped her.”

Before I can ask how, we spot Evelyn’s party making their way up the mountain pass. A few bends, a few minutes away. I can see her auburn hair intricately tied and shining in the sun.

“Right. Damn. We’re later than I thought,” Lysette swears as she dismounts. I follow.

She’s still muttering to herself as she ties the horses to a nearby tree.

“So here’s the situation, Commander. Everyone expects the mage to hate killing mages. Varric, smart-ass that he is, could help her then and there. But there’s one thing Evelyn hates killing more than mages…”

My eyebrows draw together. More than…?

“Templars,” Lysette explains and waves her hands rapidly as she does so. “One must always listen to what Ev _doesn’t_ say – because she’s so Void-damned obstinate about not being a _burden_ or some equally idiotic idea. But I guarantee you – I’d bet my sword arm on it – that every Templar she came across was harder to kill. Now take off your armour.”

I whip my head to her in shock, only to find her ripping off her cuirass.

“Come on, Ser, we don’t have all Maker-fucked day.”

“Armour?” I sputter.

“Take it off while I explain.”

I concede. Gauntlets first.

“I’d bet you that every Templar Evie had to cut down looked either exactly like me –” she points to the Order-insignia’d cuirass on the snowy ground – “or exactly like you.”

“But I – I no longer wear Templar armour.”

“You may as well. And I reckon you wish you kept the skirt, right? In this chill.”

My final piece of armour finally detaches, and I slide the metal pauldron off.

The gentle clopping of hooves echoes as the Herald’s party round the bend. I know the moment Evelyn catches sight of us: a brilliant golden barrier springs up before the horseback party.

Lysette laughs loudly. “I’m no bandit, ‘Your Worship’. Calm your magical little tits.”

“Lysette!” Evelyn cries as she springs from her horse – barely avoiding a faceplant as her staff catches on the stirrup. “What are you doing here?”

“Reminding you that I’m alive,” Lysette smirked, opening her arms wide. The two share a long, enthusiastic hug. I almost want to back away and give them privacy, but Lysette continues: “I even brought you a gift.” She spins the shorter woman to see me.

Under Evelyn’s astonished gaze, I feel naked. More so without my armour. Maker’s breath, why aren’t I wearing my armour?

“Commander,” Evelyn curtsies politely. Her smile is toothy and broad and makes my own stretch across my face.

Lysette winks at me. “He’s not wrapped in steel, Evelyn.”

Fade-green eyes whip from her friend to me and back. “Does that mean…?” Her voice is small. 

She looks at me, and I can see what Lysette could read between the lines of her letter: hurt, confusion, worry, grief, fear. Lysette nods encouragingly behind me. I, in turn, nod to Evelyn.

She jumps on me.

I suppose it is technically a hug, but she is so short that jumping is required. Her arms are thrown around my neck, her legs around my waist, her cold nose pressed right against my neck.

It’s been too long since I’ve truly held someone, but my stiff, shocked arms know what to do.

They hold her close. Tight. Feeling her relieved laughter shake her little body – so small in my arms, so soft in those robes and leather – and wincing as her chilly fingers press against my thin shirt.

I’m still facing Lysette, who smirks victoriously, as well as the rest of the party. Their faces are varied: Varric, stunned but intrigued; Solas, quiet approval; Cassandra, saccharine bliss quickly covered by cold practicality.

Still Evelyn doesn’t let go.

I feel no inclination to be the first to.

So we cling to each other for much longer than what is proper. I excuse the misbehaviour easily. Reason that the Commander lies buried under his armour behind me and the Herald won’t reach Haven for another hour or so. Here, with friends, we are only Cullen and Evelyn.

And hugging Evelyn feels like a sip of warm tea – the sweet kind, not the bitter mess still on my tongue.

When she finally pulls back and I lower her gently to her feet, she shoots me a smirk.

“So, Commander: I see Lysette has shared another one of my embarrassing secrets with you.” At my raised eyebrow, she elaborates. “How I abhor steel plate and petulantly demand that my friends remove it so that I can hug them properly.”

I chuckle lightly.

“She may have – or perhaps she kidnapped me and forced me to disarm.”

“Such insubordination!” Evelyn jokes.

Thinking of endlessly disrespectful tea deliveries, I groan, “You have no idea what I’ve endured from her.”

“Then I shall endeavour not to leave you to her mercies again.”

“Of course not,” I agree. “Nor Josephine’s, please.”

She giggles again, eyes shining.

“Well it seems _you_ have _me_ at a disadvantage now, Ser. I’ll need a secret in return.”

For all my studious Templar restraint, all my Commanderly resolve, I can’t help but pick her up again. Evelyn clings to my neck as I spin her around, her strong little form tightly caged in my grip.

Her ear is pressed near my chin, and a simple strategic turn of the head allows me to whisper to her.

“You want a secret, my lady? Your tea is _absolutely terrible._ ”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much C/E in this one, sorry folks! I'll make up for it in the next (hopefully not nearly as delayed!) chapter. This fic continues to be not dead. Requests / feedback always appreciated :)


	12. Nothing Short of Wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100% C/E to make up for previous chapters.

**Evelyn POV**

Only the cooks rise before dawn.

The cooks and the Herald of Andraste, I suppose. Leftover precautions from when my modified protection wards needed to be replenished every few hours, my only clockwork the reluctant Marcher sun. Such habits are hard to break.

The cooks, the hesitantly “Holy” Herald of Andraste, and the old workhorse – the “Jackboot,” a word learned from Sera – that is the Commander of the Inquisition’s Forces.

Tendrils of steam dance in my wake as I sneak to the Command tent, centrally nestled amongst the still-sleeping troops. Evading a guard patrol or two is easy business for a former-half-hearted apostate. It’s Leliana’s keen gaze that can’t be dodged.

The ravens caw above, clearly agreeing with my assessment.

His tent is empty. _Empty._

I hadn’t considered this possibility, teapot steaming in my hands, hip satchel hiding my surprise. Cullen doesn’t sit behind his imposing desk wearing his impatient face doing his important work. Nor is he slumbering on the cot in the back – thank the damn Maker for sparing me that mortification. Ah, but _a Lady never curses. A Lady is always proper._

_A Lady_ also probably _doesn’t_ _enter a man’s tent unannounced in the early hours of the morning._ My face is as warm as my hands, without the decency of calfskin gloves to cover the flush. It takes a moment for the heat to recede, permitting me to escape the tent to the stillness of the snowy morning.

He’s not in the tavern either, to my dismay. What a delight it would have been to see him, hand on his neck, bashfully beseeching the cooks for a loaf of the first batch.

He may be walking the grounds, I realize. Without a complicated, tedious tracking spell – or a speedier, darker, morally suspect tracking spell, I suppose – I would never find where he disappears so early in the –

_The Chantry._ _Of course._

A devoted Templar, former or not. Cullen seems the type to take the mantle in honest faith, the Chant on his lips long before that sly scar split them.

And behold! On metal-clad knees before a simple shrine, the furry cloak gives him away.

As does his voice; it’s the soft voice, the one he uses with _Evelyn_ , never with the troops, never with the War Council. If my suspicions are correct, it’s the one he uses with an anxious, panicking Josephine, soothing the Antivan like a horsemaster does a spooked filly.

_“We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling,_

_Only a Light in this darken'd time breaks._

_Call to Your children, teach us Your –”_

***

**Cullen POV**

_“–Your greatness._

_What has been forgotten has not yet been lost.”_

And she’s there, voice like sunshine, posture like Andraste herself, all aglow in the golden light. It would be easy, in this moment, to believe her truly perfect. Maker-sent.

She may be the latter, but never the former. The way she bites her lip, hesitant, too toothy and with a grin that’s too mischievous…

“Am I imposing, Ser?”

“Certainly not.” I shuffle awkwardly to my left, giving her the customary right.

She kneels beside me, fluid. A distant clink sounds beside her.

“Is that your favourite?”

“Verse? Not quite, just familiar. You seem to know the Canticle of Andraste well enough, yourself.”

“You’re not the only devout to live in the Chantry’s Circles, Rutherford.”

“No, no of course not, and I’d not intended to imply – I’d never suggest the Herald is not, I mean to say –”

She places a hand gently on my arm and the scrambling words fall wayside.

“Am I the Herald here, Cullen?”

The question is heavily weighted, like a shield heftier than what my arm can hold before it begins to quiver.

I turn my gaze to the shrine, back straight.

“Do you believe it the wisest course of action, Your Worship?” My tone is mercifully steady.

“Most certainly the wisest course, Commander.”

“Very well.”

She hasn’t removed her hand, and it gives my inner elbow a squeeze, right above the gauntlet.

“That doesn’t mean it’s what I wish, Cullen. Nor what I intend.”

I can’t help but smirk at her candor.

“Very well,” I repeat, and she giggles lightly. She pulls the satchel off her hip and hands me a small ceramic cup and a jar of something amber – honey?

“Surprise,” she whispers.

After a beat of my _Maker-damned tongue twisted confusing_ silence, she graciously elaborates: “Cassandra owed me a favour for those herbs; while we sought them out, I had her dispatch a few bears so I could collect this.”

It isn’t until she gently lifts a familiar-smelling clay kettle that I understand.

In one confident swipe, I place the ceramic cup before me, take the kettle from her gloved hands into mine, and pour myself a portion of the bitter blackness. A little dripple falls, wetting her skirts. I had not noticed that we had turned, knees to knees.

She adds the honey herself, a generous helping. More than my ration-oriented mind would allow. I inhale, an objection bubbling on the tip of my tongue.

“You dare not skimp, Rutherford.”

“Oh, I dare,” I grumble.

“ _No,_ ” she reproaches, imperiously. “You dare not. I’ve collected much more, Commander, for this very purpose, and you _will_ accept it.”

“At what cost, my Lady?”

“Not a lady, as we’ve ostensibly established.”

“At what cost, Your Worship?” I stamp down the urge to smirk again.

“A Game of Trades, variated?” she suggests with a casual, delicate lift of her shoulders. It belies her calculating eyes, her wry grin.

“Ah,” I whisper conspiratorially, “you’ve caught onto my greatest secret: an unfathomable lust for the Game of Trades.”

Her freckled cheeks turn a little pink in the morning light. “Commander! You can’t whisper such things in the Chantry!” Her whisper is a yell, somehow.

“But where else can one whisper confessions, Trevelyan?”

She huffs.

“So,” I continue, smug without any true cause, “variated in what way?”

She straightens her skirt and continues, “Variated in that I will offer you one bottle of honey in exchange for one question answered.”

I hesitate, judging and weighing. She gestures to the cooling tea as I’m pondering, and I take a heavenly sweet sip. _Baited and caught._

“Very well.”

“Very well,” she mimics sternly.

“Your first question?” I gulp the tea back – it’s actually rather palatable like this.

“What _is_ your favourite verse?”

I chuckle over the little ceramic cup.

“Are you angling to become a Revered Mother when this is all done, Evelyn?”

“I doubt I could do the hat justice,” she giggles.

“At least you’d finally meet the height of a man’s shoulders,” I retort.

She hits my leg, just above the knees, with a _thwack_. “Rutherford.” Her raised eyebrow is perfectly articulated impatience.

“First Canticle of Trials,” I admit.

Evelyn bites her lip, pondering. I find it unfathomably hard to tear my glance from the gesture. _Maker’s breath, Rutherford._ Then she murmurs:

_“When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me  
And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then  
In the pounding of my heart  
I hear the glory of creation”_

“It’s a beautiful passage, Cullen,” she says, placing her tiny fingers on my hand as it holds the empty teacup. “But a tragic one.”

There’s something in her gaze…

“It is called the Prayers for the Despairing, after all.”

“I suppose it is,” she breathes after a beat.

“I don’t mean to –”

“It’s not that I –”

The moment is awkward. Stilted. Nearly despairing.

Evelyn, thank the Maker for her intuition, gives me a sympathetic grin and straightens her back.

“Onward to another question, Commander?”

“If _the lady_ wishes.”

The sympathetic smile turns vengeful in a flash. “Which sibling do you despise most?”

Were I still drinking tea, I’d have snorted it out on the Chantry floor.

“Maker’s breath, I don’t _despise_ any of them!”

“Truly, never? You’ve never wished for one sibling fewer, for a moment’s reprieve from, perhaps, an irritating younger sister or nagging elder one?”

“The price of this honey is high indeed, Evelyn. I’d never admit to such a thing.”

“Well, Maker commend you for either your amenity or your discretion. I, on the other hand, have certainly despised a sister or two. Even a brother.”

“How many siblings do you have, to have the luxury of despising so many?”

She tuts and bites her lip again, continuing: “Don’t you have a report detailing the Trevelyan dynasty?”

“Your mouth is nicer,” I blurt, unthinking.

Fortunately, she laughs, clearly caught off guard. My palm sweats at the back of my neck. “What I meant was, ahm, I’d prefer to hear from you, erm, directly. Your mouth… piece. The mouthpiece of Andraste, I suppose. Your Worship. That is – blast it. Evelyn, I…”

Evelyn’s laughter curls her inward for a moment, her gloved hands covering her mouth. She manages some half-hearted chastising through the bubbling giggles.

“Andraste’s sake, Cullen, we’re in the Chantry! Mother Giselle will come by here any moment and think her Herald’s gone mad!”

“Hasn’t she? She’s boiling tea here, of all places, admitting to despising some of her siblings!”

She snorts delicately. “Just some? They despised me first, if its any consolation for my disavowed piety.”

“By my count, you’ve despised two sisters and one brother at the least.”

“Then I’ve despised them all. Adelyne, Marisanna, and Thomas. I’m fourth, youngest, and have the blackest of wool.”

I smirk at the strange thought: this capable, considerate woman before me, the black sheep of the family?

“Blackened by magic, I presume?”

“Naturally. What else?”

“Your biting wit?”

“Oh, no, Ser; wit’s a Trevelyan point of pride.”

“I see – whereas amongst the Rutherfords, such sniping would get you extra farm chores.”

“My, my, Cullen. Have you been punishing yourself all these years?”

I quirk a brow at her, looking down. She’s leaned onto one arm, while I still sit on my knees, towering before her. I relax to the same side, half lounging to reduce the height difference.

“I struggle to find your meaning, my lady. Perhaps this is some fanciful noble reference I’m too Fereldan to understand.”

She swats my arm with another giggle. “I only meant you’re overworked. Perhaps each time your wit bites too deeply, you assign yourself another impossible task.”

“By that estimation, Evelyn, how sharp was my wit for me to undertake the Inquisition’s army?”

Her face turns mockingly grave; it makes me smile.

“I dare not ask such a question, Rutherford; not for all the honey in Thedas. Such dark secrets should rest at peace. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Her jest is meant to be light, but with the Canticles still echoing around me, with ‘dark secrets’, the darkness of Kinloch, the poison of Kirkwall, it all seeps up as bile in my throat.

“NO! No, I… No, I can’t…”

I close my eyes, trying in vain to return to the preciously carefree moment of banter. It is gone. In its place is the dull shriek of the Rite being administered, the soft splashing of blood from a carved throat.

I can barely register my next movements; I attempt to excuse myself – barely offering any excuse at all. I leave the Chantry. I find my tent. I find quiet. Never solace. Echoing, suffocating silence.

I find a report. I find a task. Watchtower sightings of bandit movements. Wolves that still linger in the forest paths between farms.

I leave dust in my wake, my bleary eyes scarcely noticing my shaking penmanship. I will rewrite them tomorrow. When tea arrives – via a wordless Lysette again – I scarcely pull my eyes from the parchment before me.

When Cassandra stomps in with a _potted plant_ of all things, the world quickly rushes back into existence. There’s only one kind of flower Cassandra would be bringing – and didn’t Evelyn say she helped find it?

My face is stiff from scowling; the smile that tickles onto it is a pleasant thing.

Flowers, then further reports. Perhaps dinner, perhaps sparring. This, I can endure.

***

**Evelyn POV**

He treads carefully, likely aware by now that my wards will trumpet his arrival.

A few steps away, he clears his throat. As he is wont to do. But no words follow.

“A Trevelyan ever keeps her word, Commander,” I chide. “I was genuine in my promises: you’re always welcome here.”

He still doesn’t approach further.

“ _Always_ , Cullen.”

With that, his boots step lightly to the edge of the dock. He doesn’t sit in his spot; he surveys the glistening lake, the setting sun.

“May I apologize, Ser?”

Finally, he looks at me, bewildered. “Apologize? What for?”

“I was hoping you’d inform me, actually. I’ve revisited this morning listlessly, Cullen. So distracted by it that I nearly gave Josephine permission to respond appreciatively to some stranger attempting to court me from Highever.”

He snorts. I know it’s in sympathy: Josie confided her disappointment at great length this afternoon. 

“I cannot make neither head nor hide of it, Rutherford. What perturbs you so? What did I do _wrong?_ Was I simply too familiar, or was it, did I…”

Cullen sighs. Finally, he sits beside me, swinging his legs across the edge. My eyes glue to my gloves. The lake remains frozen over. I wasn’t even casting out here. Just _thinking._ Hoping, if I’m truthful, that he’d appear.

“I’m an ass.”

I cough on a swallow. An _unexpected_ response, at the very least.

“I’m an ass,” he continues, “and you’ve done _nothing_ wrong, and nothing to deserve… Maker’s breath, please believe me in this. You’ve been… perfect, Evelyn, nothing short of wonder.”

“Then… why ever…?”

He doesn’t answer, seems to choke on every response that rises to his throat.

But soon, in the warm light of dusk, Cullen gives me my favourite sight: the bashful, awkward ex-Templar shapeshifting into the confident, capable Commander. Shoulders turn straight. Chin raises. Furrowed brow smooths and that damned scar pulls each smile into a smirk.

“I’m not so much of an ass not to recognize the need for atonement, if I can’t offer explanation. At the very least, it was rude to storm away as I did. You still had several questions for me, after all. Thus, a three-pronged approach to apology –”

“Cullen, tell me you didn’t use your battle map to strategize an apology.”

“… I needed it. Clearly.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“But the first prong –”

“Completely forgiven.”

“– was to employ Lysette’s methodology –”

“Wine and flowers?” I interrupt.

This finally impedes his train of thought. “Wine? I didn’t think of wine.”

Assurances are on my tongue, but a detail catches my eye instead. I look directly at his confident (albeit blushing) face: “Cullen… did you get me flowers?”

He swallows. “They’re in your cabin.”

“Cullen, you don’t need to get me flowers for an unneeded apology.”

“Hardly unneeded – and besides, they weren’t an apology mechanic at first.”

“Wait –” I squint at him, suddenly suspicious. “Commander, would you happen to know why I went traipsing through the forgotten cemeteries of the Hinterlands looking for _Crystal Grace_?”

“Again,” he sighs, “I’m an ass. I hadn’t considered that Cassandra would involve you. The book said Crystal Grace was found in the wildernesses of Southern Fereldan and I thought…” the last few words are mere mutterings. And the most endearing sounds I’ve ever heard.

“Well, for the intrinsically redeeming quality of remembering my favourite bloom, I declare you forgiven. Very forgiven. In the name of Andraste, if my own is insufficient. I’m her Herald, haven’t you heard?”

I lean gently on his side, rewarded with a shy smile.

Suddenly, he stiffens. I revisit the concern that he might find my affectious manners too – _too much,_ really, too familiar, too improper, too –

Such thoughts are halted when Cullen begins to remove his gauntlets.

Before I can question him, the cuirass is placed behind us, too. His red mantle goes with it, leaving a simple cotton shirt and leather breeches, the cloak draped unattached across his shoulders.

Before I can even _process,_ he scoops me – effortlessly, despite my many heavy layers – by the knees and lower back.

My feet end up one side of his thighs, behind on the other, knees beneath his chin.

“Cullen?”

“Tell me I haven’t overstepped, my La – Evelyn. If this is –”

I snuggle into his chest – as he’s perfectly positioned me to be able to do – in lieu of responding.

As his arms tighten around me, I know he understands.

Not too familiar. Not too improper. He is everything that is comfort, warmth and woodsmoke and the scent of deep mushroom infused into his healing tea.

“And now for the third prong.” I hadn’t anticipated how his voice would rumble beneath my cheek, how that cheek would glow alight with the intimacy of it.

“Where you toss me into the lake because you’ve realized you needn’t apologize at all?”

He snickers. That, too, thunders in his chest.

“No, where I give you what you’re owed.”

“Ahh, definitely being tossed in the lake, then.” I jab his stomach in jest, pulling away with no reaction and a sore finger.

“Branson.”

“Branson?”

“He would follow me relentlessly, as little brothers are apt to do, and it would drive me spare. I used to devise ‘training regimens’ for him – running around the fence with a hay bale in his arms, picking every black stone from the lakeshore, and somesuch. Just to have him leave me alone.”

“I pity our recruits, if those were the punishments you doled out as a _child._ ”

He chuckles again, tightening his arms for a moment.

“They’ve not worsened – in fact, my Branson Repellant Regimens, as I referred to them, are the inspiration for many more creative drills. Some of those same skills and conditionings have saved our soldier’s lives.” His voice is proud, paternal almost.

“If only they were as resilient as your most despised sibling, right?”

“Not despised, not at all – just the closest to being so.”

“You miss them.” It’s not a question; it’s clear as Antivan coloured glass.

“You don’t miss yours?”

_A Lady never snorts._ “I saw them often enough to know better.” Cullen can likely feel my wry grin tug at the cotton of his shirt. “Besides, they are safe in the Marches, far from any Breach activity… Your family, however –”

“ – also safe,” he assures. “There’s an Inquisition presence in their town, though we can scarcely afford it. Selfish, I suppose, but after all this time…”

He chokes again, on these words. I squeeze his arm lightly.

“I’ve not been the best brother. It’s the least I can do to ensure they’re safe.”

“Do you ever write them?”

“Not as often as I should. I believe Josie makes up for my negligence, though; I received a letter congratulating me on the new position – amongst several chastisements – from Mia not long after the Inquisition formed.”

I giggle. “Maker, I love Josie.”

“Don’t we all.”

"Now, for those questions..."

"Ask away," he grins. "I find I may require more honey sooner rather than later."

I spend the rest of the evening peppering him with silly questions, inconsequential things. His arms are comfortable. The lake begins slowly defrosting again under my ministrations.

And though my favourite flower awaits me when I return to my bed, I find I’m in no rush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Redcliffe & its repercussions. A little more angst, but this is first and foremost a fluff-fest, so no worries on that front. Thanks for reading!


	13. Another Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set post shitshow-that-is-Redcliffe. This is an awkward tone-setting introduction to the second half of this story – and terribly hard to write. Good news is that a lot of sweet and angsty and better scenes have been planned out for Act 2 since the beginning. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me ;)

**Cullen POV**

“Nothing else?” Leliana is growing exasperated. The light lilt of her voice is turning sharp. Josie looks nervous; she knows what happens when the bard’s tongue turns to a blade.

“Your future self was unfortunately taciturn,” the Herald responds.

“An army of demons and a dead Empress aren’t _nothing,_ ” I defend. But Evelyn is far away – no grateful smile or pained expression meets my eyes. She is the very picture of a tranquil lady.

“Why didn’t you pull more from her, then?”

The Herald blinks.

“You mean to suggest I should have saved you from torturous interrogation only to … interrogate or torture you further.”

I snort.

“Or Cassandra –” to her credit, the stalwart Seeker doesn’t flinch at Leliana’s implication – “or any others. Where were the Commander, the Ambassador?”

“We did not locate either.”

I want to be relieved. Relieved that Evelyn was spared the damage of seeing my broken lyrium-tainted body or Josie’s sweet open face twisted in agony.

But the Herald is poised and tranquil and _Heralding_ in full force – Maker, but the obvious conclusion is that Evelyn, for whatever damage she was spared, is still very, _very_ damaged.

How do you put a person back together?

 _If I knew the answer_ , I smile darkly, _Kinloch Hold would be much farther from my waking thoughts._

Beneath weak candlelight and a high moon, the argument continues without me: who the Elder One is, what they want, how they could accomplish such atrocities…

…Mage accommodations.

Now _that_ is a headache and an argument I intend to start with Evelyn the moment she peels the Herald’s placid mask off her face and _comes_ _home_.

At the sound of my sigh – perhaps more of a growl – Evelyn’s gentle, familiar magic creeps across the breadth of my shoulders. Soothing, apologizing.

I smirk down at the table before me. I know she catches it when the heat travels deeper. At least she _knows_ she’s caused a headache.

Suddenly, the warmth disappears and Evelyn lurches toward the table, catching herself gracefully with her hand and a deep, heaving breath.

“My Lady!” Josephine cries, immediately at her side.

“It’s no worry, Ambassador.” Evelyn’s voice is dull. “I am merely a little over-tired.”

“We shall reconvene in the morning, then.” Maker bless Josie.

“And lose precious time?” Leliana’s Orlesian accent grates. “The Herald’s memory is pivotal to our success. How are we to avenge the Divine if we know nothing of her murderer!”

“Lady Trevelyan has –”

“She’s shared everything, Leliana,” Cassandra interrupts, stern. “If it is your wish to revisit the events, I will answer your questions.”

“But the Herald –”

“ _Evelyn_ deserves some rest.”

I nod empathetically in agreement with Cass, eyes trained on Evelyn’s wilting form. Mana exhaustion, likely ordinary physical exhaustion as well. She leans daintily on Josephine’s arm; how she manages _graceful_ in such a state is as much as mystery as the path to the Golden City.

Without waiting for further argument, Josie leads Evelyn out of the War Room, muttering something about tea and blankets and Antivan crumpets.

***

It takes scarcely an hour before Evelyn’s at my tent.

“Sneaking out of your cabin?” I chastise mockingly. “Whatever will Lady Josephine and her esteemed crumpets think of you?”

“I am very grateful to the Ambassador for her generous assistance.”

Ah, not Evelyn, then: The _Herald of Andraste_ is in my tent.

“How may I help you, Herald?”

Try as I may, disappointment seeps into my tone. Evelyn meets my eyes; tranquil.

“If it’s not too great a bother, Commander, I wish to learn about sieges.”

“Sieges?”

“Indeed. Who would be a finer tutor on such a subject?”

“Massache, but I can summarize him.”

“I would be most grateful if you could.”

I clear my desk, pull a few books, and lay them out.

The light that typically flickers in Evelyn’s eyes at the prospect of new information is still missing.

“ _Maker,_ Evelyn,” my hand meets the back of my neck. “You needn’t talk about it but don’t – please don’t be…” I scramble for words.

“Why does one instigate a siege, Ser?”

I sigh and humour her humourless questions. For hours. Every nuance and specification of siege warfare that I know, pulled from me like a Seeker’s unsmiling interrogation. It’s nearly dawn by the time we finish, my throat as dry as the Hissing Wastes.

“And if we were to siege Redcliffe castle?”

I snort. “As I said, it has never broken to siege. I doubt our forces would so drastically rewrite history.”

“So a charge upon the castle would fail.” Her face is still passive.

“Spectacularly.”

“Would we charge again?”

“Unlikely. Casualties would be grave.”

“And if we did?”

“I imagine a gory reprise of the first failing, the retelling of which is unfit for a Lady’s ears.”

 _Ha!_ That makes her flinch. A reaction.

“And a third?”

“A _third_ attempt upon an immovable force?”

“Yes. Would we attempt thrice, Commander?”

“ _Maker,_ no. I could never order my men into such a slaughter.”

“Even if the alternative was also death?”

The pieces click together, at last.

“Evelyn,” I reach for her. She impassively lets me lay a hand on her shoulder, gentle as with a Mabari pup. “Evelyn, you are not responsible for their deaths. If they died storming the castle, they died to save their families, save their friends. They did not die for you.”

I bite my tongue. “I mean, that is, not that they wouldn’t die for you – I mean to say, you are worth dying for. To them. It’s just that they would be… Andraste preserve me.”

She giggles. It is faint. A slight crack in her poised exterior.

“Thank you, Commander. I understand your meaning quite clearly.”

“Good.” My ears burn.

She sobers again. “And if you _did_ order a third attempt?”

I shake my head. “I couldn’t – I would never ask that of my troops.”

“Then how –”

“Voluntarily.”

“Oh.”

“It would have to be a voluntary charge. I wouldn’t lie to them – with diminished numbers, twice repelled? It would be a suicide mission.”

“Would you – of course you would.” She interrupts herself and leans, exhausted, against the desk.

“Yes, I would lead them personally. As every Commander would.”

Her answering grin is wry. “Not every, Cullen. I can assure you of that.”

“As every Commander _should_ , then.”

“ _Why_?”

“What do you mean?” Evelyn sways and does not respond. Emboldened by the recent smile, the giggle that echoed lightly in the tent, I turn and hold her gently against my chest. Careful, cautious support.

Finally, she speaks: “why would you attempt the third, Cullen?”

I look at her: somehow smaller, frailer than ever before. I have no answers. I never have the right words.

Instead: “I’m here, Evelyn.” I mutter into her hair. “I’m _alive_. We’re all alive.”

I repeat the simple words, over and over, a stagnating lullaby. Eventually, Evelyn’s exhaustion overtakes her. She folds inwards, blinking off sleep. Surrenders to it.

No matter. I was unlikely to catch even a wink with fifty unsupervised mages en route to Haven.

***

“Please tell me she’s in here. My next option is blood magic and your darling Southern sensibilities seem to find such things unpalatable. Pity, really. Useful in these very scenarios.”

The interrupting voice – I recognize the mage, Dorian, the Magister that aided in the Redcliffe dealings – doesn’t wait for a response before barging in with a flourish.

He looks ready to continue speaking, or perhaps begin incanting, when we lock eyes.

My glare says _murder_ to any that wake the cozied-up mage sleeping in my cot.

“Well, now,” his gaze darts between me and the lump that is Evelyn. “When she said you were friends, I didn’t realize she meant _friends._ How utterly charming. Oh, how she’ll blush when teased – it will almost account for every grey hair I’ve sprouted this past hour trying to find the little wisp.”

“Quieter, please,” I scowl, “the Herald deserves her rest.”

To his credit, Dorian’s eyes soften when they settle over her. He looks almost… tender.

“She will require healing when she wakes,” he explains apologetically.

“Then I shall send for the healers.” My tone is unfairly gruff, but the ache of sleeping at my desk and the early hour of the intrusion leave me with little patience.

“ _I_ am the best healer for her – I know precisely what she’s experiencing and can account for the nuanced progression of her symptoms.”

“Healing’s a new speciality of the Magisterium, then? What, did blood magic fall out of fashion?” I grit my teeth, struggling not to bait him further. The sooner he leaves, the less likely his self-absorbed rambling will wake Evelyn.

“Oh, positively _pass_ _é_ these days,” his eyes flash, delighted. “I am, however, no expert on the Magisterium and their preposterous fashions; academia is where one finds the future – sometimes unfortunately rather literally – and blood magic is so banal these days. There’s nothing that quite matches the allure of poison, don’t you think?”

I pinch my nose. “She’s poisoned?”

“You’re a quick one. Red lyrium exposure. Vicious stuff, that. She may vomit once she wakes – I’d rather she didn’t choke on it. And undignified death, makes for an unseemly corpse. Holy figures should die beautiful, memorable deaths, you see. Like that woman your Chantry so reveres.”

I stand, slowly, ready to escort the nuisance from my tent.

“How do you know this much about red lyrium’s effect on mages? Peddling the stuff back in Tevinter?”

“I am an altus of Minrathous; I do not _peddle_ anything.” His moustache twitches with a sneer.

“If you must know, my esteemed Templar – I can predict her symptoms due to the simple truth that we share them. I lost my tasteless Fereldan porridge an hour back, artfully in a crevice of your endless rock formations; immediately overcome with worry that our Ev would be thieved of her chance to burn at the stake like someone of true Southern consequence, I sought her out.”

My responding glower, surprisingly, does nothing to slow him. “And now here I am, in your most _welcoming_ company, pleasantly surprised to find my friend isn’t actually dead.”

“Someone should inform my mouth of that.” Evelyn’s voice groans from behind us.

Immediately, both Dorian and I rush to her bedside. The mage is stronger than he looks – he nearly manages to barrel me over in his haste.

“ _Vishante Kaffas_ , Evelyn, you look ghastly.”

She snorts. “Thank you, Dorian.”

“It is ever my pleasure to be the voice of truth – how else would I ensure you’d listen to me? Despite my brilliance, I find a troubling amount of impatience amongst your people – particularly these rooster-hatted Mothers your silly little Chantry loves fussing over. A meager drop of blood and I’d have been here an hour ago, you know.”

I sigh, resigned to the prattle by now. Evelyn’s mouth pulls into a whimsical grin. Without thinking, I take her hand. Give it a small squeeze, which she returns.

“Feeling alright?” My voice is almost a whisper.

She hums in agreement, sitting up slowly. “Did I… Maker, did I _sleep_ here? And you – where did you –” her eyes settle on my rumpled hair, dart to my disheveled desk, and return in a furious glare.

“Cullen.”

“Evelyn,” I begin, struggling for words.

“Cullen. Did you sleep at your desk?”

“You know very well I do that regularly.”

“Why didn’t you just carry me back to my cabin?”

“I was tired?”

“Cullen.” She reminds more of Mia every day.

“You needed protection.”

“Cullen,” this time my name is a sigh on her lips. A furtive glance at Dorian shows the uncharacteristically quiet mage to be smirking and pulling a cloth bag across his bare shoulder.

“These were on your bedside, my Lady, revered Herald, _“Friend_ ” of the Commander.” It’s Evelyn’s little tea set – the one from the Chantry. A bundle of my usual bitter brew nestles beside the honey.

“Thank you, Dorian,” she says, more sincerely now. “Could you perhaps…?”

“Ah, ah, ah, my little imp. Don’t you even. You know you have to do that yourself.”

Evelyn emits an undignified and childish huff.

“Dorian,” she whines, “it… itches. It scratches at me.”

The fellow mage nods gently and tucks a piece of her hair back into its intricate braid.

“I know it does – but you have to get all the red out of your mana pool or else it will continue to discomfit. Come now, no delay! Brave and bold. Doesn’t the Trevelyan mantra include such nonsense?”

She snorts again, squeezing my hand gently as she repositions.

“And what do you know of Marcher nobility, _altus_?”

“I think we might be long-lost cousins. I’d have to consult the family archives to be sure, though.”

“How illustrious for me,” Evelyn mutters, “to have such distinguished relatives.” I smirk.

Dorian laughs – a bright, short sound. “I see your wit’s in place. Now get to it, my little Circlet.”

Evelyn furrows her brow. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then don’t act like a Circle mage.”

“Fine,” she pouts. Soon enough, steam is rising from the kettle and the familiar smell is washing over me. Her magic seems hesitant, stilted. But it is there. And far richer than it was last night.

“Have we yet achieved a better resonance?” I can see why Evelyn and this strange mage have a good rapport; his boastful banter’s been tossed aside in favour of a clinical, academic tone. They discuss metrics and symptoms and magical theory that makes my head spin for a moment: no Templar training reached such complexity.

“A little more casting, and I think I’ll be through the last of it.”

Dorian chuckles again. “You certainly did a number on that lake last night. Whatever did the poor waterhole do to you?”

Evelyn shrugs, shooting me a secretive smile. “We have a history.”

“No doubt you do,” Dorian smirks, waggling eyebrows at me.

“Not what I meant, Dorian.”

“Nothing escapes my most ingenious notice, Herald.”

“Please – my name is Evelyn.”

“And yet, no one here seems to know who _Evelyn_ is.” Dorian’s lips arch downwards as sharply as his moustache.

Evelyn, her very nature grace, simply shrugs delicately and hands me a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” I murmur, watching the colour return to her face.

Dorian opens his mouth – likely to tease again, but Evelyn meets him with an _imperious_ gaze that miraculously silences him.

Then she surprises us both again: she asks if she could have a private meeting with the Commander.

“Very well,” Dorian snickers, “I can discern where I’m unwanted. Remember, Ser Cullen: _dignified_ is what we aim for here. Take care of her. I’ll be in the library if you need me. I have a family connection to prove, after all.”

He saunters out with the same grace that he entered, too proud to glance uncomfortably over his shoulder as I’m doing.

I feel my ears burn red. My hand still rests around her littler one. A private meeting?

“ _Yes_ , a private meeting, Cullen. Try not to seem so scandalized.”

I cough. “Why would I be scandalized, my la- Evelyn?”

She giggles, the bubbling, goofy kind with a snort at the end.

“Maker, your _face._ I’m not here to tarnish your reputation, Rutherford.”

“Then what did you wish to discuss, Trevelyan?” I challenge.

“Mage accommodations.”

Oh. Of course. The Herald had come to me last night, falling asleep before her questions were through. The Herald would need to return to complete the conversation.

“Very well, Your Worship, I have some plans right here –” I release her hand and head for the desk, already missing the warmth of it all. Evelyn, sleepy and giggly in the dawn light.

“Cullen.”

I turn to look at her. Hope squirms in my belly.

“I’ve decided that the Herald of Andraste got stuck in time back in Redcliffe, Ser. All you’ve got now is Evelyn and she… she may be less eloquent, less poised, but she knows firsthand the importance of her contribution to the Inquisition. I have plans, too. For the mages. And I think… I think you may not hate them.”

It couldn’t be a better early Santinalia gift.

“Would you… shall I call a council meeting to debate these plans, Ev?”

“Yes, please. I’ll need to freshen up. But I mean it, Cullen: you’re stuck with me, now. With Evelyn.”

“There’s nothing I could want more,” I respond too quickly, too sincerely.

She smiles, warm as the tea in my hand.

Whether she hops off the bed and jumps on me or I sweep her up into my arms doesn’t even register, doesn’t even matter: she’s there, and she’s shaking, and she’s not the least bit tranquil. But she’s also smiling and the shaking might be laughter, not fear.

“My first declaration as Evelyn Trevelyan, Herald of No One But Herself –” the name makes me chuckle into her ear – “is that you, Commander Cullen, are an excellent hugger.”

I place her down on the ground, gentle as I can.

“So,” I begin. “Mage accommodations?” I offer her my arm and walk her to her cabin in the bare light of breaking dawn. “Might I make a request, Evelyn?”

She snorts. “So soon? Very well, Ser Cullen. Is it Templar recruitment?”

“Can we place Dorian as far from the lake as possible? I’m scared he’ll fall in love with his reflection on the ice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Stay healthy, folks! Wash your hands and take care of each other :)


	14. A Silhouette, A Splash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is staying healthy & safe. Social distancing = more writing and more reading: fanfic communities rejoice! Anyways, please enjoy our friendly neighbourhood Herald blossoming into the Badass Leader we all know she’ll be. (With help.)
> 
> NOW WITH part 2 added after the long ***************.

**Cullen POV**

“Cullen, if you clench your jaw any tighter, you’ll crack teeth,” Evelyn whispers as we approach the Chantry doors. Cassandra, marching abreast of us, smirks.

Dorian, Vivienne, and Solas follow behind, each with their own unique brand of _swaggering_. I envy the confidence of those around me; speaking to a gathering of mages will never leave me at ease.

But Evelyn handles it masterfully. With all the poise of a lady and all the sternness of a Chantry mother and all the warmth of Andraste herself, she gives the mages their choice:

“Those of you longing for the order and stability of the Circles may elect to create your own Loyalist order under the Inquisition’s banner: you will report to the First Enchanter –” Vivienne nods in serene acknowledgement – “and rely on the support and care of the Inquisition’s Templars.”

There is a nervous murmur in the crowd, but Evelyn’s commanding voice – when did she develop a _commanding_ voice? – quickly stills the eddies of discontent.

“Those of you seeking freedom, true magical freedom, may join the Inquisition as independent agents. You will oversee yourselves. You will self-administer discipline for any practicing blood magic or overcome by temptation. If you can fight, you will fight as our brothers and sisters in arms. If you can heal, you will heal. If you can serve, you will serve.”

As her speech continues, eloquent and austere, I find my stance relaxes. We have thought of everything, of that I am convinced. Poring over the War Table, Evelyn blossomed into the First Enchanter she was groomed to be.

And I am _proud._

I’ve no right to be – her successes are her own, but Maker damn it if I don’t want to salute her to the music of the crowd’s cheering.

“I cannot believe that worked,” she exhales as we enter the Chantry.

Dorian, bounding from behind, interrupts my congratulations. “Of course it worked, darling; you’ve got those poor pilgrims wrapped around your delicate little finger. Now, do we have any proper wine in this sad little hamlet? An Antivan red perhaps, or even a little brandy…”

Evelyn waves him off with a delicate gloved hand.

“No celebrations yet, altus.” He pouts, she grins, I chuckle. “There’s work to do.”

And work she does.

I find myself trailing in her wake, seeking excuses to see her devastating leadership in action. Mages are corralled into orderly groups organized by level of skill and experience. Enchanters are set aside to teach the young, to ensure their safe voyages through the Fade. _Mundane magics_ fill the air, tentative at first, celebratory by noon.

I seek out Cassandra to triple-check the Templar oversight, just to watch Evelyn introduce those with healing capabilities to the ever-surly Adan, their overseer. She pounces upon any grumbling like a barn cat on a mouse: graceful and lethal.

I speak with Leliana regarding the highly improbable chance of Tevinter spies having infiltrated the mages; she likely thinks me mad and paranoid, but it’s worth it to watch Evelyn place minor mages with the messengers and servants, teaching them gently to heat bathwater and seal wax with magic.

I even have tea with Josie just to overhear Evelyn diplomatically contain the worry of Mother Giselle, seamlessly sewing threads of peace between these disjointed, battle-scarred patches of our Inquisition.

 _Maker’s breath,_ but the woman is nothing short of a miracle.

In the dim light of evening candles, having finally set myself to work at my desk – rather than trailing behind Evelyn like a mabari pup behind a sandwich – it is Dorian who finally interrupts my own productivity.

“My dear Commander, my frowning golden light of Fereldan sunshine, my –”

“Get to the point, mage.”

“ _Tut, tut._ Ever so truculent. Very well, I shan’t waste a moment of your precious time. It’s past dusk, Commander.”

I lift an eyebrow at him. As Evelyn would say, _imperiously._

“Vishante Kaffas, and here I thought you clever. Must nuance be so impolitely eschewed? Or subtlety so carelessly –”

“Did Evelyn send you?” I interrupt.

He looks… guilty? “In a manner of speaking.” The emotion quickly passes from his handsome features, replaced by the usual _void-may-care_ bemused apathy. A mask as thick as Evelyn’s Herald, if you ask me.

“Run along, then, Ser Rutherford. To the docks with you. Oh, and bring a handkerchief.”  
  


***  
  


Her silhouette looks wrong.

I’m not sure how, but as I approach our usual retreat in an unfaltering march, my mind spins. Her silhouette looks wrong – hunched, cowering. Nothing like the straight back and royal demeanour she’s held all day. Nothing like the Lady I met or the mage I know.

I hear a sniffle, and suddenly the handkerchief tucked into my pocket doesn’t feel so foolish.

Grateful that I left my armour behind, I sit beside her.

She sniffles again, the smallest sound.

I do what is most natural to do. I pick her up. I deposit her on my lap. I hold her shaking, tear-streaked face against my chest and tighten my arms around her.

I can wait for words – Maker knows _I_ haven’t the right ones. But I can wait.

***  
  


**Evelyn POV**

With anyone else, this would be humiliating. Cassandra? Bewildered and overwhelmed. Leliana? Judgmental, most likely. Dorian? Mile-a-minute stories for distraction.

But Cullen? Quiet patience. Maker bless him.

“I’m starting to think you’ve lied to me, Rutherford.”

He startles, clearly surprised by my sound. Or perhaps the rasp of my tired voice.

“Lie to the Herald of Andraste? I daren’t.”

I snicker, wiping my face.

“Not when she has an army of mages at her behest, you surely don’t.”

“Hardly an _army_ of mages,” he jests, though I can feel him tense beneath my cheek.

“Very well, then; an army of bath heaters.”

“Maker preserve us all.”

 _A Lady does not –_ I sniffle. I cover my embarrassment by using the last dregs of my mana to seep warmth into his back, to all the places I know he holds the strain of his work.

“You lied; you must be an excellent brother, Cullen.”

He snorts dismissively. “I’ve not written since before you fell from the sky.”

“Yet you know how to comfort a crying girl – not precisely the mark of a negligent big brother.”

He snorts again. “That’s not from having sisters. That’s from having recruits who weep for home.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Cullen gently rocking a fully-armoured Templar as he rocks me now.

“Lying again, Rutherford?”

“Maker forbid,” he chuckles. “Honestly, Evelyn, it just seems like the appropriate thing to do.”

“Yes,” I deadpan, gesturing to our rather improper positioning, “this is the height of appropriate behaviour.”

“Even _ladies_ cry, don’t they?”

“Who was the last _lady_ that wept in your arms, Commander? Do you make a habit of this?”

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, sounding like Dorian. “Sounds like a Game of Trades to me, Trevelyan.”

I poke him in the ribs with a knuckle. He continues: “In whose arms did you last weep? Then I’ll tell you who last wept in mine.”

“Very well; agreed.”

He hums for a moment, thinking. “Josephine.”

“Our Lady Ambassador, less than composed?” I cry with feigned shock. Truthfully, I’m unsurprised; she’s always spoken of him sisterly. Of course his burly arms would be her comfort.

“A week after her recruitment, yes. She was …overwhelmed. But she proved to be resilient.”

“ _Resilient_ is an understatement for Josie. I’ve never met such a … _reasonable_ noble.”

His nod bobs against my head. “What about you, Trevelyan? Who last saw you cry, _my lady?_ ”

I poke him again, to no avail. The Commander doesn’t even flinch.

“Dorian, of course,” I smirk, “right before you arrived.”

Cullen sputters. “That’s hardly fair! I already knew that!”

“It’s the full truth in trade for the full truth, Rutherford. I can’t help it if you trade poorly.”

“I do not trade poorly, you _cheat._ ”

“Have I offended your Fereldan sensibilities, Ser?”

“You imp,” he pokes my side. I certainly flinch.

“Whatever shall my punishment be, Cullen?” I tease.

I should not have teased. Cullen swiftly lifts me up by the knees and shoulders and extends me out over the pier, hovering uncomfortably across the water.

“You wouldn’t dare, Commander!”

I can’t see his face in this darkness, but I know the mad, boyish glint must dance in his eyes. The same one that points out ledges out of my reach when we’re walking with a bemused, ‘I wonder what plant is up there?’ The same one that grinned at me when the First Enchantress’ dress was streaked with mud.

“Daren’t I, Herald?”

I hold very, very still.

After a heartbeat, Cullen relents, pulling me close to his chest again. “No, Evelyn. I could never hurt you.” Ever so sincere, my chivalric old knight.

“Hold onto that thought, Cullen – you might need to remind yourself of it in a moment.”

“Wha-” he begins, but it’s too late.

With all my strength, I throw us both off the ledge and plummeting the few feet into the thin ice and water below.  
  
  
***************************************************************************************************** *****************************************************************************************************  
  


**Cullen POV**

I expect the shock of cold once I feel the ice crack beneath my shoulder.

Hold your breath. Find the surface. Make your muscles move. Hold your breath. Find the surface.

But wait – the water… is warm.

My head breaks the surface of a perfectly lukewarm bath. I twist to find Evelyn’s giggling face a few breaths away from my own scowl. She floats happily in her lake, illuminated by a soft magelight.

“Maker’s breath, woman, you could have warned me!”

“But the righteous anger on your face! Oh, Cullen, it’s a very pretty sight.”

I glower at her.

“Yes, exactly like that. The very picture of Fereldan bravery.”

“I imagine I look more like a drowned cat.” My hand finds my hair and - yes: it is curling wildly in the cold air, the product all washed out in my splashing.

The magelight flickers as Evelyn pours more magic into the water, bringing it to an admittedly soothing temperature.

“Don’t exhaust your mana on account of our comfort, Herald.”

“Oh dear, you haven’t called me “Herald” unprompted in a fortnight. Did I upset you, Cullen?”

Her eyes are large and plaintive. Floating in the water, her gaze is level with mine. She’s only marginally more intimidating at eye-level.

“No,” I admit. “Surprised, is all. I don’t enjoy being surprised – I like to think it’s not easy to do so.”

“Oh, I know that most well. That’s why this is such a triumph!”

She swirls little rivulets of water around her, childlike, and I’ve not seen her like this in many weeks. So playful.

“I admit, this is a sight better than your crying. Might even warrant the surprise.”

Her joy flickers like the magelight. I curse my awkward tongue.

“I only meant –”

“It’s alright, Rutherford; I was simply reminded of how long it’s been since I could be a simple Circle mage, not wrapped in fraught politics or unfathomable Fade magics, or –”

“Horsehite,” I interrupt.

Evelyn sputters. “What?”

“You’ve never been a simple mage, Trevelyan. You were Harrowed at _eight._ You’re one of the most powerful mages I’ve ever seen and I’ve only seen you fight half-dead.”

The magelight illuminates her blush.

“Maker’s breath, you’ve learned more about the fringes of magic than a hedgemage, you can herd _mages_ into some sense of militant order without any experience, and you can probably speak Orlesian or some other noble nonsense. None in Thedas would deem you a _simple Circle mage_ , Evelyn.”

She remains shocked, gaping, silent. I take a deep breath, combing fingers through now-unruly curls.

“Regret this weight on your shoulders if you must, but don’t lie to yourself: you’re extraordinary, Ev, and you’ve always been. You only miss _pretending_ to be plain.”

She finds her words: “I don’t know what to say to such an accusation, Commander.” Her smile is all cheek.

“Shall I summon Lysette to compare mage oversight notes?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t wish Lysette here, Rutherford.”

“Why not? I’m ever eager for allies in the fight against your stubbornness.”

“Because,” Evelyn’s eyes light with mischief, “she _splashes.”_ She emphasizes the word with a wave of warm water cascading into my face. Her precision is adequate.

I splash back, a meager distraction, but Evelyn delights in blocking it with ice; her happy little chortles distract her from the true offense, though: I duck beneath the water, grab her by the waist, and pull her under with me.

Thankfully, she has the presence of mind – excellent reactions, better than half my troops – to both catch a breath and to bring her magelight down with us.

We wrestle in the murky waters of the magically-tempered lake, flailing hands and legs and a long, red braid unravelling. When my eyes are closed, I could be back in the Calenhad as a boy in summertime; it could be Mia or Bran twisting beneath my grip.

But my eyes are open. As are Evelyn’s. And those eyes are close enough to mine to see the mischief in them, the exuberance. I still. She stills. For a beat we both relinquish our squirming and smile through murky gazes. My hands are still on her waist.

Then she’s grinning madly, bubbles escaping through her teeth, and pulling us both up.

“Commander, you _scoundrel_. That was a dirty trick.”

“’ _All’s fair in war_ ’, Trevelyan.”

“Is that one of Massache’s wisdoms, then?”

“No, rather one of the bullies’ taunts back in Honnleath.”

“I can’t imagine a noble little Cullen letting such a thing stand.”

I laugh at the memory and her excellent deductions. “Certainly not. After all, I had a very sword-like stick.”

“Well then, if I was born extraordinary, you were born extraordinarily noble.”

I frown and open my mouth to object, but a well-timed splash interrupts me.

“I’m far from –” Another wave.

“What’s that? I can’t seem to hear your pitiful objections through all this water?”

“Maker, Ev, you’re _relentless,”_ I cough as another well-timed waves hits my cheek.

She giggles, finally ceasing her onslaught.

“You’d do well to remember this, Rutherford.”

“Yes, Ser.” I shoot her a wry grin.

She snickers. “Maker, can you believe it? A young Templar addressed me like that this morning. Unironically. Called _me_ ‘Ser’. Me! My lady mother’s heart would palpitate at the thought.”

“I do believe it, actually. I think I even saw it.”

“Ah, yes, the not-so-well-hidden Commander blurring at the edges of my sight all day. Were you satisfied with your inspection, Ser? Did I pass my evaluation?”

“No evaluation,” I assure her. “Merely admiration.”

She blushes again, a soft smile warming at her eyes.

The erratic, childish joy of earlier has faded into something as soft as that smile. Warm as the lake, but deeper. I don’t mind.

“Come,” she says. “It’s about time the noble Commander and extraordinary Herald dried off, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Given that it was your decision to enter the lake, I find I can only defer to your judgement on when to exit it.”

Her laughter ends with a snort. She turns to find an adequate exit on the muddy bank, but I call her back.

“Care to be irresponsible this evening, my Lady?”

“However so?”

The hand at the back of my neck tangles in wet curls. I scowl and comb it through again. I think I hear Evelyn stifle a snicker, but her face is serene and contemplative when I peer closer.

“I’ve noticed a gap in your noble education.”

A mock gasp. “Commander! Surely not! Andraste preserve me, pray tell what it is?”

“Can you navigate by the stars, Evelyn?”

Her eyes light with an enthusiasm no mock-outrage can smother. She grabs my hands and pulls me to the shore.

I laugh and gather my memories, the stories Pa taught me, Andraste’s belt and Draconis and the little wooden spoon.

Though it is far past dark, I feel no fatigue. Only an ache in my shoulders and a thirst for lyrium.

Judging by the strength of Evelyn’s insistent tugs toward lakeshore, neither does she.

“This comes at cost, you know,” I warn.

“Are you about to swear me to secrecy regarding your hair, Rutherford?”

“What about my hair?” I tease.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she laughs.

***


	15. A Lady Wears and Wears Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for falling off the face of the earth, folks. Hopefully over the writer's block now!   
> Thanks to Solertree for the inspiration to go on ;) 
> 
> NOTE: if you haven't read it yet, I added the second half of last chapter to the end of it. Everything under the ******************** is relatively new.

**Evelyn POV**

The weeks pass in relative peace; suddenly, I oversee mage training, mage troop integration, mage accommodations, magical oversight. The weight on my shoulders decreases with time and experience, or, as Cullen tells me, my strength grows to bear it.

War Councils also change; the others look to my opinion as representative of the entire Inquisition’s interests, not merely my own. The Council quickly becomes a tight-knit group, viciously effective and brimming with mutual support.

It is like nothing I’ve ever know. It is its own kind of magic, I’m sure.

Today, Josephine is practically dancing as she enters the Council Room, followed by two servants carrying a large ornate crate. I recognize the emblem immediately, obscured though it is in the grime of travel: two crossed horses, emerging from waves.

“I see we’ve finally received word from my illustrious family,” I smirk, throwing a wink at a sympathetic Cassandra. “Next time, Josie, please assure them a simple letter will do.”

Josie giggles. She’s bouncing – clearly eager to open whatever gift they deemed relevant to their intended point.

Leliana, however, has a shrewd look in her eyes. She turns to me slowly, like a prowling cat.

“Herald,” she murmurs, “is there any reason we should be … concerned about the contents of this –”

“- No, no, no,” I am hasty to reassure. “My parents wouldn’t soil their gloves with _that_ brand of nastiness. No beheaded spies or bloody hands or –” I quickly recognize her true concern – “anything that would unsettle our dear Ambassador.”

Leliana nods. Appeased.

Eventually the crate – moderately heavy, it seems: perhaps tack ornaments? – is placed ceremoniously on the War Table. Cassandra and Cullen both cringe as a few army banners are displaced for the dusty box.

“Thank you,” Josephine dismisses the servants with a delicate flick of the hand.

“I don’t see why you’re so excited, Lady Montiliyet,” I try. “You know as well as everyone ‘round this table that my parents effectively disowned me when my magic manifested.”

“Yes, but that was many years ago, and the bonds of family can be powerful.”

“Josie. Their embarrassment made _history books_.”

Josephine tuts as she passes a crowbar to Cassandra, who passes it off to Cullen with a grunt. I smirk, knowing that if this were a package from the Pentaghasts, there would be no discussion: it would burn. Cassandra’s dark look indicates she’d like to do the same on my behalf.

Josephine’s eyes implore me to be optimistic. "The _Winter Squall of Ostwick_ made history books, Herald, with _no_ connection to the Trevelyan name.”

“Yet it remains a blemish on their reputation in their eyes.”

The Ambassador’s hand flicks, dismissing my argument as smoothly as the servants.

“Nonetheless, this response means, at the least, that you are not _disowned_ , as you claim. Now,” her eyes gleam like a child on Santinalia, “open it!”

Cullen, with a shrug, obeys the order, catching the lid before it ruins more of his map.

All five of us peer inside and I bite my lip to stop from snickering at the obvious interest in my peers’ – when did they become my _peers_? – faces: even the surly Commander looks on curiously.

The box is filled with rich fabrics, velvets and embroidered cottons in deep, jewel tones.

A single unfolded note rests atop: “ **You are Lady Evelyn Trevelyan of Ostwick. Comport yourself accordingly”.**

Cassandra grunts in disgust, stomping from the War Council with a simple “retrieve me if something important happens.”

Leliana gently lifts the note, her Spymaster eyes analysing a million unthinkable attributes.

Josie begins pulling cloth from the crate, laying them atop the now-ruined map of Thedas.

I look to Cullen, torn between a wry grin and a grimace for his lost work, but the shake of his head and the mirth in his eyes tell me all is well.

“I was going to reset it tonight regardless,” he assures.

“Ooh, feel this velveteen, Evelyn! This is fine handiwork. And the detail on this bustier!”

I roll my eyes. “I wonder how long it took them to decide that their disgraced mage daughter would be more useful to them as a noble Chantry symbol instead.”

Josephine pouts, “Surely you don’t believe –”

“– Leliana,” I interrupt, “when stories of the Herald’s antics spread around Thedas, how do the bards describe me?”

“Uncommonly beautiful, with hair as bright as Andraste’s fire, a voice as sweet as spring rain, eyes green as the Breach, and a face so lovely that men shrivel in reverence.”

I can feel myself turning bright red under her mischievous grin. Redder than my hair, which – Andraste’s fire? That’s a bit dark. Darker than my _dark red_ hair, but…

I clear my throat. “I meant to ask, what am I wearing in these retellings?”

“The blue robes of your Ostwick brethren, slaughtered at the Conclave. Some say still stained in the blood of the demons you’ve battled.”

My nose wrinkles. “They believe me incapable of washing, then? What sort of primitive, idiotic –”

I’m interrupted by Josephine pushing a rich burgundy up against my (perfectly clean) blue mage robes. “Oh, it fits wonderfully. An excellent estimation of your size and shape – we will not need to find a tailor suitable amongst our more… down-to-earth… neighbours.”

Cullen looks bored, rather than offended. It’s obviously a good day for his health.

“I’m the same size as my mother, Josephine. I would posit that these are some of her gowns, or at least very similarly made.”

“How generous!”

I shake my head. “Josie. You misunderstand. This is a message, not a gift.”

She sobers immediately, too clever to have missed the insinuation of the note. “Yes, that much is certain. But, Evie… can it not be both?”

Maker bless her, with her happy Antivan family, her exasperating but beloved little siblings. I sigh. “I shall attempt to see it your way, my Lady.”

“My Lady,” she returns with a sunny grin and a curtsy, bustling back to pull more dresses from the crate, to smooth their travelling wrinkles.

Cullen clears his throat, pulling my attention from a growing jealousy at the thought of having Josephine as an older sister.

“A message?”

I sigh. “They’ve surely heard tales of their youngest’s adventures. It seems they are … displeased with how I’ve conducted myself.”

“How so?” he scoffs. Ever defensive, my Commander.

“ _A Lady does not run. A Lady does not fight. A Lady does not mount her horse unassisted. A Lady does not bark orders like some barbaric Southern Dog Lord_ – I’m sure you see the pattern, Rutherford.”

“A Lady does not hold the key to saving Thedas in her left hand, either, I should reckon.”

“No,” I bite my lip, “she certainly does not.”

“Hang what a _Lady_ does, then. Do what _Evelyn_ does _._ ”

I wish it were that simple, that easy to ignore the voice that echoes ‘round the chamber of my mind and questions every action.

“It remains more complicated, Commander.”

“Why need it be?”

Leliana chimes in, to my gratitude: “Courting the Trevelyan’s favour is in the Inquisition’s best interests, Commander. With their connections, their wealth, their influence in the Chantry – it may be well worth a minor change in appearance.”

There is a beat of silence as Cullen strangles his oppositions. As my friend, it’s clear he hates this, this idea of foreign hands commandeering my life. As Commander, he must retreat.

“Very well. This is not my area of expertise.” His jaw clenches.

“But perhaps you should wait until you see her in it to complain, Ser.” Leliana smirks.

I pick up the burgundy piece Josie left before me; it only takes a moment’s inquiry to reject it. “No. No, I can’t wear this.”

Josephine is aghast. “Why ever not?”

“My parents may have up-to-date information about my sizing,” I smirk, “but not of my appearance.” I hold up the wide neckline, wide enough to fall gently off my shoulders in a classic Marcher style. “I have a rather unseemly scar on this shoulder,” I lift the left in an unladylike shrug. “It would ruin the noble presentation entirely.”

There are a few moments of silence as the Ambassador and Nightingale consider this, consider the ramifications of denying the Treveylans their wishes.

“Erm…” Cullen grips the back of his neck awkwardly. “Could someone please explain the problem?”

I laugh aloud, the first laugh of a surprisingly tense morning.

“Of course. It’s rather simple, Commander: _A Lady has no scars.”_

That’s apparently the straw that breaks the horse’s back.

“Alright, this is ridiculous. She’s a warrior. They want her to save their lives from demons, but _stay unscathed_ doing it? It’s already remarkable how cleanly and composedly she can fight. Maker be blessed that mages battle at range. That she’s not littered with scars after the void-damned battlefields we send her to is a bloody victory in and of itself!”

Josephine covers a giggle at his outburst, Leliana a smirk with a simple raised brow.

In these War Councils, it has recently become my unspoken duty to find peaceful compromise between parties. It seems this silly situation is no different.

“Hush, hush, no more complaints. I’ll put on the Maker-forsaken thing and you can decide for yourselves if I look _more_ or _less_ like the Herald of Andraste in it.”

I change quickly in Cassandra and Leliana’s room, a private space that no one enters without announcing themselves. The dress is simple, requiring no help.

Loathe as I am to admit it, the velveteen feels luxurious and soft, the bustier providing comfortable support, the sleeves ending just above my wrists, easy to cast in. My parents apparently considered the necessity of my shameful powers – at least in this dress.

“Shit.” The mirror illuminates how the burgundy makes my scar more prominent.

It is an ugly, twisted, auburn thing, poorly healed, that I quickly avert my eyes from. With a high chin and a sweep of my warm skirts – clearly the fabric was also selected for the weather – I rejoin the War Council.

Josephine squeals.

Leliana’s eyes light up in a way I haven’t seen before, delighted in something pretty and uncomplicated.

And Culllen? Cullen is strangely red in the face. Perhaps Leliana and Josie chastised him while I was changing.

“Truthfulness please:” I implore them, “how obvious is the scar.”

“It is –” Josephine begins.

“Perfect.” Leliana exclaims, to our surprise.

“Perfect?”

“A Lady, a true noble image of Andraste, yet just as bloodied and formidable as Andraste herself. It is perfect. The Chantry won’t know whether to worship you or fear you.”

“Leliana makes an excellent point, Herald,” Josephine adds. “The contrast between this _gorgeous_ gown and the rather notable scar is… quite striking.”

“We can use this,” Leliana smiles one of her mysterious smiles, the smile of a million secret plans.

Cullen has no comment. He walks, red-faced, to the door and mutters something to a passing messenger.

I inhale deeply, imagining the staring faces as I walk through Haven in such a dress. Though not distinctly more formal than my usual robes, no less practical (save the neckline), I will never again be permitted to blend into a crowd of mages.

Then again – at every turn, those faces have been staring since I awoke in that little cottage beside the fire. May as well use it to our advantage.

And it carries one distinct advantage: “My parents will _abhor_ it.”

Josephine grins, “But Herald, you complied directly with their wishes. You present yourself in the typical style of a Lady of Ostwick. What else could they have meant? We must thank them for their generous gift,” her smile is wry and mischievous. It twists her face into something younger.

“Of course. May I dictate a message to be included, Ambassador?”

“Most certainly!”

“Let it read: **I am Lady Evelyn Trevelyan of Ostwick, Enchantress of the Circle of Ostwick, the Herald of Andraste. I will comport myself accordingly.** ”

Leliana nods her approval again. Josephine shines. Cullen, however, looks severe.

“I have a concern to raise,” he claims, turning away from the door to look disapprovingly at my bared shoulders.

I stand straight as a Lady would, matching his stern gaze for one of my own.

“Your concern is…?”

A knock sounds on the door. Cullen opens it.

Captain Rylen enters, saluting his Commander, bowing to the Ambassador, nodding to the Spymaster – he freezes mid salute to me, however.

“Sweet Maker above,” Rylen whispers, jaw gaping.

“That.” Cullen states. “That is my concern. I have an army to run, Evelyn - that is, Herald.”

I can’t help it; I snicker at his glower and Rylen’s fly-catching expression.

“I’m flattered at your conclusions, Commander, but I doubt this will be a wide-spread concern.”

“Captain, before seeing the Herald’s new… wardrobe, what percentage of our forces do you estimate fancy themselves in love with the Herald?”

Rylen quickly regains his sense at Cullen’s gruff tone. “About half, Ser.”

“Half?” I interject. “Impossible. I’d have noticed.”

“Would you have? You spend all your time working. And my men are well-behaved.”

“Well-behaved while you’re working and well-afraid when you’re not,” Rylen chuckles.

Cullen’s gaze sharpens on his captain.

“Kindly elaborate, Captain,” I request, trying to be less severe than Cullen.

“Well, you’re always under guard, your Worship. Well-watched, as it were.” He smirks as his clever turn of words, only continuing when he catches Cullen’s glower.

“That is, Your Worship, I’ve heard many a drunken solder grouse about it – how, if only there was a chance to speak to you alone, some bloody romantic sunset moment, they could win your heart or some other washwater.”

“Guarded? How?”

“Well, the understanding is, you train and take a moment to yourself in the evenings, after dinner.”

I nod carefully, not understanding.

“It would be the perfect chance, you see, if you weren’t under guard the whole bloody time. The soldiers understand the consequences of disturbing you while the Commander himself is being your shield. They know that means he trusts no one but himself with the job. He keeps them nice and afraid.”

Comprehension dawns over Cullen’s face in perfect synchronicity with my own.

Leliana, ever vigilant, covers for us both: “I am glad to hear the soldiers understand the importance of the Herald’s protection, Captain.”

“Aye, Lady Nightingale.”

I’m still reeling at the thought of dozens of unknown would-be suitors in the silence that follows. Nervously, Rylen adds: “Have ye any more questions, Ser?”

“No, Captain, that’s sufficient. You’re dism–”

“– Wait,” I interrupt, finally seeing this moment for the opportunity it is.

“How are you so certain of the troops’ sentiments, Captain?”

“The answer’s in the question, Your Worship. Though I’m paid like a lieutenant, have responsibilities like a lieutenant, and talk back to the Commander like a lieutenant,” I smother a chuckle as Cullen huffs, “the fact that I’m just a captain means the men talk to me. Confide in me, if you will.”

“In that case, _Captain,_ ” I smile, “what percentage of our forces do you estimate fancy themselves in love with the Commander?”

“This is unnecessary, Herald,” Cullen begins as Rylen thinks.

“The other half, I reckon.”

Cullen sputters. “Impossible!”

Leliana, clearly enjoying the day’s revelations, chimes in with a sing-song tone: “He speaks truly, Commander. I have a list of soldiers three hand-width’s long who are being watched for impropriety regarding their affections for you.”

“But… but how?”

“You are very handsome, Commander. And thankfully, very intimidating.”

“Aye,” Rylen adds, evidently spurred on by the Spymaster’s support, “Intimidating enough to keep suitors away from both you _and_ Her Worship.”

“This is nonsense,” he huffs, red as the setting sun.

“I admit, I was just jesting, Ser. It’s likely only a third of our forces. And many of them may jump ship once they see the Herald in full regalia.” Rylen turns to bow to me with a wink. “You look ravishing, Your Worship. Should you need further protections, I’d be well pleased to –”

“Out!” Cullen’s bark brokers no argument. Rylen leaves with a smirk and a salute.

The Commander exhales deeply, bending over his ruined War Table, fiddling with a piece.

“Well that was enlightening.” I can think of nothing better to say.

Josephine, finally composed again and stifling no further giggles, speaks up: “I shall take these to be pressed by the laundry ladies, Herald. Perhaps you will continue to wear that one throughout Haven today?” Her tone is hopeful, and Leliana’s smile supports it.

I touch my scar nervously, trying to catch Cullen’s eye. No luck.

With a deep breath, a reminder that my role in this Inquisition requires the best of me, I turn a challenging smirk in his direction.

“If the Commander will forgive me for it,” I tease.

The small smile that pulls at his own scar tells me he will. 

“Avoid the training arena, if you can,” he requests. “The new soldiers fight with steel there, not wood. We must do what we can to avoid preventable injuries.”

Leliana giggles, a girlish sound. “If half of them have been pining for our Commander, I doubt another handsome sight will incur more injury.”

Cullen only groans into his hands. “Is this meeting concluded yet?”

“Yes,” I agree, still blushing myself.

Leliana sweeps out with a skip in her step; though I’m certain she learned nothing new today – excellent Spymaster that she is – she seems gratified to have such embarrassments come to light. Josephine quickly follows with a swift gesture to the servants to collect dresses and crate.

Cullen and I bask in an awkward silence until the crate, servants, smirking friends, and dust have all left the room.

“That was …uncomfortable.”

“You started it,” I accuse with a wry grin.

“I would argue your _parents_ started it, in truth.”

“It’s all exaggeration though, isn’t it?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“After watching you run headfirst from that lovely Fereldan heiress, I hope so too – for your sake!”

He pushes roughly at my shoulder, camaraderie returned.

A wicked tease sits at the tip of my tongue – a jest at how he fled for the stables – but Cullen’s expression has turned grave again.

“Cullen?”

“That’s a bastard sword’s scar. A Templar’s blade,” he gently caresses the mangled shoulder.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“I bet it did when you received it.”

“Oh, stung like Maferath’s burning piss, as Lysette would say.”

He snorts. “Lysette and Rylen should have a competition in vulgarity.”

“Please don’t encourage her. Dorian would never forgive me for sullying his delicate ears like that.”

“Very well, my Lady,” he nearly whispers.

After a beat, he continues: “Can I ask how?”

“The scar?”

“Yes.”

“Remember how I told you Templars only think of three options when opposing a mage? Silence, Smite or –”

“– Run Through with Sword,” he chuckles. “Yes, I remember. But why did you let them so close?”

“He was a friend.”

His eyes turn wide, worried. His face pales.

“It was a week or so after Ostwick fell. He was suffering from lyrium withdrawal, imagining horrible things,” I continue as Cullen greens. “I thought I could help him, ease the aching of his tensed shoulders a bit. Some magic Lysette and I had experimented on, but hadn’t told him about…”

“The same you use on me?”

I answer with a rush of heat down his neck and back, a cool touch to his forehead. He shudders.

“And he ran you through with his sword.”

“He couldn’t Silence or Smite. All out of lyrium.” I shrug, with the shoulder that – save a horrific scar – causes me no pain. No painful memory.

“Is he here?”

“Here?”

“In Haven. Did he survive the Conclave – is the man that, that _mangled_ you here under my command?”

“No, and calm down, Rutherford. He didn’t mean to.”

“But he still hurt you.”

“I accepted that possibility when I tried to help him.”

“That’s unacceptable. He doesn’t deserve your help if he’s liable to hurt you for it.”

“We’re not talking about the same man anymore, are we?” I raise a brow to meet his outraged expression.

“I… we… that is, Evelyn, I…”

“You won’t hurt me, Cullen. And if you do, I can heal myself. I’m a mage, after all.”

He laughs. It is mirthless.

“You _won’t._ ” I double down, speaking to him as sternly as I do to out-of-hand mage apprentices. “I may be an unaccomplished healer,” I gesture to the angry scar, “but aesthetics aside, I’m competent. I can protect myself. You are no threat to me, Cullen. You’re my friend.”

“Your _friend_ ran you through with a sword. Pardon me if I don’t trust your judgement.”

“My judgement is sound; after all, were you armed the first time I tried mundane magics on you?”

He acquiesces with a groan. “That’s barely a consolation.”

I sigh. “I don’t want to fight about hypothetical hurt, Cullen. Just know that, should you accidentally run me through with a sword one day, you’re forgiven.”

“How can… how can it be so easy for you? To forgive a _monster?_ ”

“Easy: neither you nor Ser Toddrick were monsters. You are men. With no more and no less of a past than I.”

He scoffs. “You have no idea what you’re speaking of, Trevelyan.”

With all the bravery I can muster after such a long morning, I touch his rough cheek, gentle as with a spooked filly.

“I don’t. Perhaps one day I will. Until then, we’re friends, Cullen, are we not? What’s a little stabbing between friends?”

He can’t help but chuckle. _Victory._

“Very well. I suppose I should mention that, should you accidentally stab me –”

“Or, more likely, accidentally electrocute –”

“– you’re forgiven, too.”

“Glad we have that sorted,” I grin. My hand lowers from his cheek, but he catches it in his own, escorting me from the War Room.

Before he opens the door, Cullen pauses. “Rylen was right, you know… you do, erm, look _ravishing_ , as he said. But you should know, you were equally beautiful before, ah, the new gowns.”

Surprised, I have no response.

Cullen’s amber eyes search for something in mine, apprehensive, as though afraid he’s overstepped, always _afraid…_

“Thank you, Cullen.”

“You’re welcome, Ev –”

“–Thank you for yet another illustration of how you’re covertly an Orlesian Chevalier.”

He groans, then laughs. “Very well, I submit! I surrender! I am secretly an Orlesian knight here to … to do something dastardly in the name of Orlais!”

My giggle is a silly sound that rings around the War Room.

“My fair lady, _mon cheri, voudriez vous me ignorer_ and please _garder_ my secrets? How does it go – _si vous plaize?”_

I snort. “Rutherford, your Orlesian is _revolting_. Please, spare my ears.”

“Only if you spare mine your baseless accusations.”

“Very well; I shall never again accuse you of having trained as a Chevalier. I shall _think_ it, but I shall not say it.”

“Regardless of my actions?”

“Regardless.”

“Very well, then, my lady,” he sweeps into a low bow, still holding my hand aloft. Through my thin gloves, I feel the warmth of his lips as he presses a quick kiss to my fingers.

“ _Ap_ _rès vous_ ,” he chortles as we exit.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention Francophones: the French/Orlesian here is intentionally bad. I cringed, too. Please don't burn me for it.


	16. If You Can't Beat Them...

**Cullen POV**

“Cullen?”

“Cassandra.” I barely raise my eyes from papers. This is her _friend_ voice – probably seeking out the truth of my health and wellness. _Itching with thirst as usual, thank you for reminding me of it, Cass._ I’m surprised she didn’t send another runner.

“Commander, this is… inadvisable.” I raise my eyes: _Seeker_ voice.

She holds a detailed memo of the Storm Coast plans and procedures toward me, as though that answers the question.

“What is your objection?”

She looks uncertain – an unusual expression for the serious warrior. “The Maker only knows how indispensable she is to our efforts, to the fate of Thedas. However, I believe… I would suggest…”

She struggles for words, then stomps and huffs. “She won’t like it, and I don’t wish to be asked to take sides between you.”

“Take sides? I would imagine your position obvious, Seeker.”

“Cullen.”

“Cass.”

“ _Commander_.”

“ _Seeker._ Tell me, when did Evelyn become a military strategist? What equips her to object to my troop movements, my encampment protocols, my –”

“– your _coddling,”_ she spits.

“Coddling?! _Protecting._ We have enough troops to ensure she has no need to be _traipsing_ through a giant-ridden wasteland. This won’t be the same as the Hinterlands. I won’t stand for it.”

Cassandra makes a rather signature grunt of disapproval, violently adding her handful of papers to my teetering pile.

I’ve bent over those same papers for countless candled nights: the preparations are sound. They are imperative to Evelyn’s safety – and the success of the Inquisition.

Besides: “Our scouts have reported _dragon_ sightings, Cass. How many Pentaghasts have been lost to those creatures?”

“ _Ughh._ ”

********

Cassandra is not the last dissident to disrupt my morning.

“Did you hear,” Dorian declares as he sweeps, uninvited, into my tent and straight to my bookcase, “that that vulgar upstart Ser Lysette called _first rights_ on telling dear Evelyn of your ill-conceived Storm Coast memorandum?”

I snort. Apparently, this is the local drama in the camp.

“On what grounds?”

“On – if you can believe this, the _gall_ of that woman – on grounds of being her so-called 'best friend'.”

Dorian sniffs and preens his mustache like a much put-out cat.

I chuckle and return to a report as the mage molests my book collection.

“Can you imagine?” he continues, unheeding of my obvious preoccupation. “That churl, that simple-minded southern Templar – no offense, of course – believing herself my equal in affections?”

“She’s known Evelyn since youth,” I point out. Dorian is quick to dismiss this with a wave of the hand as he flicks through an old tome.

“Meaningless in the face of our shared experiences. Have they ever faced certain death together, heads held high, executing the impossible?”

Giving it a moment’s thought… “They likely have.”

He huffs again, mustache twitching. “Inconsequential, then.”

“I assume Lysette’s currently occupied relaying those plans to the Herald, then?”

“Oh, don’t be coy, Commander – if you wished to see our lovely Ev in the flesh, you need not aggravate her with insulting numbers of armoured guards. A simple messenger will do. Marvelous system you have here, though I do wish your runners would heed me better.”

Dorian’s too buy selecting his next tome – the first, it seems, politely returned to its appropriate position – to notice my withering glare.

“Moreover,” he adds after a moment, “you have more serious concerns. Namely, this challenge to your authority.”

“Evelyn knows better than to encourage insubordination amongst my troops. Without consulting me on the matter first, at least.”

“Clever,” he chortles. “I _meant_ the challenge to your authority as Evelyn’s Best Friend.”

“My… what?”

Dorian rolls his eyes, selecting his next prey with a flourish and a whirring of flipped pages. “I’m not blind, Ser; despite my greatest wishes, I recognize that I am not Evelyn’s true best friend – not _yet,_ anyways. Such things take time, of which our holy little love has very little.”

“You, however,” – _Maker,_ but he barely _breathes_ between proclamations – “should find such insinuations insulting to your – _aha_!” A graceful finger holds itself against a brown page.

“Have you read this treatise, Commander?”

He extends an old _Fereldan’s Guide to Soldierly Conduct_. I nod. Eyes squint in suspicion.

“Excellent. Most excellent. Enjoy the rest of your day, Ser Cullen – it’s sure to be eventful!”

Dorian is the second person to exit my tent without the courtesy of waiting on my dismissal – but not the last.

********

“You should know, Curly, that there are some pretty big bets going. You make me a rich man today, and we can reconsider that nickname of yours.”

********

“Ahhh, if it isn’t ye olde Commandery Man.”

“Captian Lysette.”

“Today, Ser, I am no Captain of yours. Merely a messenger of the Herald’s. A herald of the Herald’s, if you will. Maferath’s knickers, does that make me holy, too?”

Pinching my nose does nothing for the encroaching headache.

*********

**Evelyn POV**

Lysette approaches with her quarry: the Commander, trailing behind, equal parts confused and incensed at the interruption. The sun is getting lower, but not in any’s eyes yet: the perfect amount of light for my intended spectacle.

 _A Lady does not duel. And a Lady does not loudly clear her throat._ But the Herald of Andraste does. Enchantress Evelyn Trevelyan does.

Aloud, as his boots thud in approach: “ **Should ye seek insubordinate measures, find ye a good man of noble birth and discernment as witness** ,” I nod towards a very begrudging Cassandra, leaning against the post with an angry grace, and continue to read from the treatise Dorian found.

“ **Keep ye close the pride of a Soldier, and guard ye e’en closer the honour of your Superior. Find ye a clear space, void of traps or troublesome roots,”** I gesture to the training ring around me, **“and issue ye a Challenge unto your Superior. If he should agree, fight ye with honour, not to mar or maim. Prove ye the valour of your objections in sacred combat.** ”

Cullen raises an eyebrow at where I stand dressed for battle. No aubergine shoulder-less dresses this day. Oh no, not in the face of such suppression.

“And this is my Challenge, Herald? You wish to …fight?”

“I wish to continue my work unhindered, Ser. But not to challenge your leadership. I found no other suitable solution to such a dilemma.”

“Ah. The Storm Coast plans, then?”

“Excessively protective.”

He scoffs loudly. “As though _you_ are an expendable resource, to be used as scout, agent, and dragon-slayer all at once.”

“And yet, I am not _your_ solider or scout to command, Commander.”

“Then why all this?” He gestures to the circle, the crowd, the dark cut of my new robes.

“It’s important to show the Commander his due respect.”

There’s a beat of silence, where Cullen considers this. The full ramifications, as always. If his Storm Coast memorandum was anything to judge by, my dear soldier is thorough above all else.

When he begins to remove his ceremonial pieces and motion at a recruit to gather his shield, I know I’ve won.

“The conditions, your Worship?”

“Should you win, we proceed with your preparations as outlined.”

“Should I lose?”

“We proceed with my alterations as outlined,” I nod toward Dorian, who gleefully holds aloft an equally detailed revision to Cullen’s original plans. A few papers float whimsically to the ground, belying the gravity of this strategy.

Maker, but I hope I’ve not made a mistake.

Cullen, thankfully, grins, and holds his sword and shield aloft as he leaps effortlessly into the training circle.

A grin that says _after you, my Lady._

*******

He’s one of the best combatants I’ve ever faced.

Ferocious. Unyielding. Unrelenting.

Altogether a good sparring partner – but no real match. For every devastating swipe he swings, I can conjure two walls of ice shatter in place of my hands. His blade, for all its bloodthirst, never even scrapes my inner shield.

I have to admit, this is Cullen at his best. Gleaming sweat, bright eyes. It’s a joy to see him in his element. Cullen’s character shines through in every agile parry, every powerful attack.

But he – an ordinary soldier, with a sword and shield and perseverance of steel – stands no chance against the most powerful mage to darken Ostwick Circle’s halls in an age.

Besides – I know him too well. I won’t fall for his feints, won’t press my advantage when he seems fatigued: Cullen has an unmatchable stamina. He is _never_ fatigued.

That is my mistake, as I call lightning to rip his sword from his gauntlet, I realize.

I don’t know him too well – I know his _strengths_ too well.

At the height of my victory, with the fearsome Commander on his knees, unarmed before me, I forget a most crucial detail of Cullen’s character: that he cares less for his wellbeing than he should.

_He cares less for his wellbeing than the success of his work._

I never prepared for a Smite from a lyrium-less Templar.

After all, I think as I collapse in the dirt, who would torture themselves just to win a duel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this time.   
> This work is still an exercise in dialogue above all else - hence why my 'action' scenes are non-existent. 
> 
> Also I'm not dead! Currently writing the next chapter. Just started a new job so getting back into a normal rhythm (which includes more fanfic again).   
> Thanks for reading :) Your comments and kudos always make my day.


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